


Twenty-Nine Steps

by VioletHaze



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Dissociation, Flashbacks, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Repressed Memories, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, repressed trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:41:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 68,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29050815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletHaze/pseuds/VioletHaze
Summary: At the age of forty, Dean Winchester has a strong, loving marriage, a successful business, and a young nephew he absolutely dotes upon. He and Cas are living the kind of life Dean never thought was meant for him, one where the future stretches out before them, solid and bright.When a series of small and seemingly unrelated events coalesce into a larger, horrifying realization, he’s rocked to his very core. With so much of what he thought he knew about himself ripped away, he’s trapped between confronting the trauma of his past and believing he’s worthy of the life he’s built.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 402
Kudos: 216





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, here we are again almost a year exactly from the first time I posted a fic serially. That fic was [Balancing Act](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22790650/chapters/54462424) and it does double duty as a fluffy rom-com story and a strange time capsule of how we found ourselves neck-deep in a pandemic. My mind is somewhat blown that we remain in its grasp so many months later but, for the first time in a long time, I feel like we're starting to slowly move in the right direction. 
> 
> I started this fic for the 2020 DCBB and got about 17k in before the world got too relentless for me to continue with it. It was the wrong fic at the wrong time, so I switched gears and wrote [Save the Drake](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26819386/chapters/65429224) instead. But when nanowrimo rolled around in November, I was ready to return to this and finish the story I wanted to tell. 
> 
> If you're familiar with my other fics, you'll know the tags on this one are a major departure for me. I got the idea for this story after watching a documentary called [The Keepers](https://www.netflix.com/title/80122179) on Netflix at the end of 2019. It's a harrowing story--one of the hardest things I've ever watched--but threaded throughout it are stories of great love and resilience. 
> 
> Let me specify a few things before we get started: 
> 
> There are no graphic scenes of Dean's abuse. 
> 
> There will be a happy ending. 
> 
> I have done my best to tag accurately but please, please don't hesitate to contact me if you have specific concerns or want to see additional things tagged. Your best bet for that is to DM me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ViolethazeA). 
> 
> My original plan was to post weekly but I've already got 15 chapters ready to go so I think I'm going to post Wednesdays and Sundays like I did with Balancing Act. If you are worried about reading a WIP, I totally get it. As of now I have nearly 75k written and I expect to add another 10k or so to complete it. 
> 
> Once again, this fic wouldn't exist without [Alison's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_morning) excellent feedback and support. My debt of gratitude to her continues to grow. Thank you also to [Nat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePamelaOracle/pseuds/ThePamelaOracle) for pushing me to complete nano, and to Moon and Ash for answering questions I had about trauma. 
> 
> In many ways this story is very different from the ones I've written, so putting it out there is intimidating and a little scary. Ultimately, though, it's an incredibly human story and I like to think that's where my strength lies.

Cas slides the newspaper across the table to Dean, pointing to a listing near the bottom of the page. “This one looks nice. Needs some updating but pretty much anything we’re considering will.”

Dean looks over the listing. Three bedrooms, one and a half baths. It’s got a small front porch with enough room for a couple of chairs. Then he looks at the address. “That’s gonna add to your commute, though.”

Cas sighs. “I know.” They sip their coffees for a bit in silence. “I don’t know why it’s so hard to find the perfect house in the perfect location for the perfect price.” He looks so disgruntled that Dean can’t help but laugh before leaning over to kiss him.

“When you put it that way… ” Dean looks around their open downstairs. This townhouse has been their home for over a decade and while they’ve been looking at houses for all the right reasons--an extra bedroom for Sam’s son Henry to have when he comes to visit, a detached garage/workshop for Dean to have space to work on the Impala at home--he’s going to miss this place. It’s small, but it’s theirs. A place where they combined their belongings and their lives when they got married.

Some days Dean still can’t believe Cas is here, that this man he met during a perfectly routine work day has changed his life in so many ways. Like any couple, they’ve had their ups and downs, but nearly fifteen years later they’re still going strong.

Cas pulls the newspaper back and flips the page. “What about this one?”

Dean leans into him as he looks, for no other reason than to take in the warmth of his husband’s body. “That location’s good,” he agrees. “Doesn’t seem like much of a yard, though.”

They both want Henry to have a place to play. He’s nine years old now, not really into sports, but Dean pictures them in the backyard one day tossing a ball around.

“Hard to tell from the picture,” Cas points out. “I’ll check the listing online. It doesn’t say there’s going to be an open house but I can call for a showing.”

Getting to his feet, Dean stacks their breakfast dishes while Cas picks up the remote to switch off the television that’s been tuned to the local news. “Sounds good. I can go any afternoon except Wednesday.”

“That’s your dentist appointment?”

“Yeah.” Dean pokes at the sore tooth with his tongue. It’s actually feeling much better but he’s put off going for so long that Cas insisted he keep the appointment.

“It’s not so bad,” Cas says, then his eyes flicker with amusement. “Henry got a token to put in the prize machine after he went; maybe you will, too.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I know I should’ve been going more. I just hate it. Being in that chair... that light is so bright.”

Cas laughs. “Of everything that goes on at the dentist, you object most to the light.”

Dean shrugs. He knows it’s stupid.

“They’ll give you sunglasses,” Cas points out. “Or you can wear your own.”

“Remember when we first got together and we did nothing but have sex for like months?”

Cas smiles at the memory, reaching out to lay one hand on the swell of Dean’s ass. “That might be a slight exaggeration, but yes.”

“How did we go from that to mortgages and dentist appointments?”

Cas reaches for his wrist, tugging him down for a kiss. “Every stage of life with you is my favorite.”

“God, you’re a sap.”

“Yeah, well, I’m your sap.” He gets up from the table to gather up his trench coat and bag while Dean takes the dishes into the kitchen. He pauses in the doorway for one more kiss. “Have a good day. Dinner is at six, right?”

“Yeah.” They’re having a barbecue at Sam’s tonight for Eileen’s birthday. “And Henry made cupcakes.”

“I’ll be home in time for us to go together.”

“Perfect. Love you. Have a good one.”

“I love you, too.”

***

Sam and Eileen live in the perfect house in the perfect location, or at least it seems that way to Dean and Cas. It’s big, but not too big. There’s a good-sized yard and even if there weren’t, there’s a charming park only a few blocks away. Henry can walk to his elementary school and there are shops and restaurants nearby. Sam has everything but the actual white picket fence, and Dean couldn’t be happier for his brother.

They pull up in the Impala, parking alongside Bobby’s truck already in the driveway. Henry is waiting in the front yard, tossing a frisbee up into the air and trying to catch it.

“Jesus, that kid,” Dean says, grinning as he watches his nephew lunge after the frisbee which hits the ground in front of him and bounces away. Hearing the car, Sam steps out onto the front porch to greet them.

“What kind of dad doesn’t even play catch with his son?” Dean chides as they get out of the car. “He’s throwing a frisbee to himself, Sam.”

“Not very well he isn’t,” Cas observes, as Henry again goes sprawling, the frisbee just out of reach.

“If that thing ends up on the roof again, it’s staying there.”

Cas follows the frisbee to where it’s rolled across the driveway. “Ready?”

“Ready!” Henry calls. With a deft flick of his wrist, Cas sends the frisbee flying right to where Henry stands. He doesn’t have to take a single step to get it. Nonetheless, the frisbee bounces off of his outstretched hands. “I’ll get it!” he yells and takes off after it.

“You know, if the kid had a dog... ” Dean begins, and he’s gratified to see his brother’s bitchface as Henry comes running over.

“Yeah, a dog can catch a frisbee, Dad!”

“You know I’m not the person in this household who needs to be convinced.”

Eileen and Bobby join them, stepping outside with two open beer bottles for the newcomers.

“The kid needs a dog,” Dean says.

Eileen eyes him with mock earnestness. “Great idea, when you two buy your new place make sure there’s plenty of room in the yard for you to have one.”

“Uh,” Dean says. He should’ve seen that one coming.

Henry hops up and down. “Yes! Get a dog, Uncle Dean!

“Bobby used to have a dog,” Dean tries. “Maybe ask him.”

Sam shudders. “That wasn’t a dog. That was a hellhound.”

Bobby laughs at that. “Rumsfeld was gentle as a kitten.”

“Rumsfeld only liked _you_ ,” Dean points out. Bobby shrugs, but Dean sees his beard twitch as he smiles.

Henry remains undeterred. “I promise I’ll walk it and feed it and I’m almost ten, I can do it all on my own.”

Dean feels a lump in his throat at Henry growing up so fast. Ten seems so much older somehow than nine. Double digits. He remembers the day his nephew was born, the grins on Sam and Eileen’s faces that even the exhaustion of a thirty-four hour labor couldn’t begin to touch.

Dean had never been a baby person—they were too fragile, too needy, but he’d gazed at Henry nestled in Eileen’s arms, swaddled tightly in a blanket and wearing a tiny hat, and something inside of him cracked open. _I will lay down my life for you_ , Dean remembers thinking. It was a primal urge to protect that came out of nowhere, washing over him with such intensity that it had to be biological.

Dean had watched him grow from a tiny, premature baby into the smart and curious kid he is today. He’s unfailingly cheerful and pleasant (at least to his uncles) and still at the age where he’s happy to give and receive hugs. Ten, though. That’s big kid territory. Dean’s brought out of his reverie when the frisbee hits him sharply in the shoulder. He turns to his nephew with a fake glare. “If you make me drop my beer…”

Henry’s eyes go huge as Dean hurriedly passes his bottle to Cas. Henry knows what’s coming and he shrieks and takes off running, his uncle in hot pursuit. When Dean catches him, he grabs him from behind, arms around his waist as he lifts Henry’s feet off the ground and swings him in a circle.

Henry squeals, laughing and kicking as they spin. Dean sets him back down, and bends over to rest his hands on his knees. “Jesus, you’re getting heavy,” he says, “Pretty soon you’ll be the one carrying me.”

“Lemme try.” Henry wraps his arms around Dean’s waist, grunting as he unsuccessfully tries to lift him.

“C’mon, kid,” Dean urges him. “Take me back to the porch. My beer is getting warm.”

Henry gives up. “Beer’s gross.”

“Oh yeah? How do you know?”

“My dad let me try some.”

“He did?” Dean feels a ripple of something hard go through him.

“Just a sip,” Henry says, and then he’s running off again.

Dean makes his way back to the porch where Sam and Eileen are chatting easily with Cas and Bobby. “You gave the kid beer?”

They all stop, and look at him in confusion before Sam laughs. “He told you that?”

“Yeah, he did, What the fuck, Sam.”

Sam reaches out a hand, but Dean stays out of his long-armed reach. “Calm down, it was one sip. And he hated it.”

Eileen looks between them, a hint of concern in her dark eyes. “He was curious and we let him try. You should’ve seen the face he made.”

“We figured it was better than him trying to sneak it. Like we did.” Sam gives him a meaningful look.

Dean’s not sure why he reacted so strongly. “I know we did, but… Henry’s not us.”

Bobby’s been watching this all unfold. “He sure as hell ain’t.” He’s always been a man of few words, but the raised eyebrow goes a long way to reminding Dean how off base he is.

As quickly as it flared up, Dean’s anger is replaced with regret. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to compare you to dad.”

“Yeah, I learned a lot about parenting from Dad,” Sam says, his voice dripping with bitterness. “And that was basically to do the opposite.”

John Winchester had the deck stacked against him and, while he did his best, he was never going to be father of the year by anyone’s accounting. Still, Dean knows better than to try and defend him to his brother.

“You boys turned out okay, all things considered.” Bobby points out. He nods to where Henry is playing happily in the yard. “And this one is smarter than both of you put together.”

That’s enough to lighten the mood. Cas hands him back his beer, his hand resting easily on Dean’s bicep for a moment.

“He’s just getting so big now,” Dean muses.

“He is,” Sam agrees. “Good thing he’s got so many people who love him.”

The rest of the evening goes by pleasantly. Sam grills burgers and hot dogs and they eat in the backyard, the spring day holding onto its warmth even as the sun sets. Dean watches in amazement as Bobby doesn’t even bat an eye at Henry’s request, pulling off his ball cap and leaning forward in his chair so Henry can put a pink, sparkly party hat on his head. The glare Dean gets when he tries to take a picture of him is refreshingly familiar.

After dinner, Henry proudly brings out the cupcakes he made. Eileen beams as Sam helps Henry light the candles and they all sing and sign Happy Birthday to her. She blows out the candles in one big breath (not hard since for some reason Henry has decided four are enough) and then she spends a good long time trying to decide which cupcake to choose for herself. They all look the same: mounds of neon pink icing aggressively covered with rainbow sprinkles. Henry leans close to her and she wraps an arm around him. “This one,” he points to one near the center of the plate. “It has the most sprinkles.” As he indicates, his finger jabs into the frosting and, laughing, he licks it off.

“Perfect,” she tells him, and takes it, holding it up admiringly. “It looks too pretty to eat.”

She darts her eyes toward Sam in a way that clearly says _How frightened should I be to ingest this?_

With Henry’s back to him, Sam signs “It’s a mix” and relief crosses her face as she starts to peel back the paper.

“Foolproof,” Sam says, passing the plate around.

“Crunchy,” Cas says, chewing the plentiful sprinkles. He leans close to Dean to whisper, “That dentist appointment may be particularly well-timed.” Dean suppresses a snort and tries not to aspirate rainbow sprinkles. All of the grown ups finish theirs and Henry tries to wrangle a second, seeing as it’s a special occasion, but his mother sends him off to play instead.

Dean soaks in the easy playfulness of his family. Sam and Eileen share soft looks as Henry runs around, Bobby laughing at his antics with traces of pink frosting still in his beard. Cas is warm and steady at Dean’s side. Growing up the way he and Sam did, these simple pleasures had at times felt like insurmountable and unattainable goals. Despite all that—or maybe thanks in part to it—the two of them have found ways to create families for themselves, homes and relationships filled with stability, peace, and love.

Dean takes Cas’s hand as the sky becomes streaked with darkness.

***

Back home that night, they get into bed together and Dean rolls onto his side, propped up on one elbow to look down at Cas. “How’d I get so lucky to find you?”

Cas pulls him down for a kiss. “You didn’t. I found you.”

Dean pretends to consider it. “Credit where it’s due. Jody found us both.” Cas kisses along his neck as Dean continues to talk. “Imagine if you hadn’t gotten into that fender bender that day. Jody never would’ve suggested you bring your car to my shop.”

“Mmm,” Cas says, muffled against Dean’s skin. “It must’ve been fate.”

He rolls on top of Dean, who hugs him tightly, kissing any bit of bare skin he can reach. Sometimes Dean finds himself worrying about how easily they could’ve gone through life with their paths never crossing. “Every time I see her, she tells me _you’re welcome_. It’s been fourteen years.”

Their bodies seem to slot together effortlessly, whether it’s curled up together in sleep, stretched out side by side on the couch to watch television, or here like this. Dean nuzzles his face against Cas’s, kissing him once, deep and languorous, before letting his lips graze his cheek. “She told me she was struck by your blue eyes but somehow she didn’t mention your perfect ass,” he whispers in Cas’s ear, as he grazes both palms over his aforementioned ass.

Cas laughs as Dean rolls them over, shifting until he’s on top. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

Pushing up on his hands, Dean smiles down at him. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

He’d been struck breathless during their first date, something in the way Cas listened so intently as Dean talked (Jody hadn’t been kidding about those eyes). There was an intensity there, a sincerity. Dean knew he was good-looking, that he could be charming and funny, but he wasn’t used to being taken so seriously. That sort of thing was for Sam. Still, Cas showed up, even dressed like a nerd in a button down shirt and slacks for their date at a bar, and he looked at Dean like there was more to him than what met the eye. It was unnerving, and honestly, it still is at times. Cas continues to look at him like Dean’s the most precious thing in his life, even after all these years.

With practiced, effortless ease, they undress each other, hands skimming smoothly over bare skin, mouths finding sensitive spots: the shell of Cas’s ear, Dean’s collarbone… they know each other inside and out. 

Kneeling over Cas, Dean reaches over to the nightstand drawer, pulling it open with a rattle to get out the bottle of lube. Cas tugs him forward, teasing him with the wet heat of his mouth as Dean works himself open. A few more flicks of Cas’s tongue, and then Dean is reluctantly pulling out, shuffling backwards to give Cas a couple of long strokes with his lubed hand before lining himself up and sinking down onto him in one smooth motion.

Cas likes to tease him about the soft sound he makes when he does that, the tiny sigh that escapes his lungs each and every time. Dean didn’t even realize he did it, but he isn’t really surprised. Nothing has ever felt this right. He wouldn’t call it _dating_ exactly, but Dean was with a lot of women before he met Cas and realized there was something more that he wanted. Cas was his first and, while he doesn’t believe in some mystical magic surrounding virginity, there was something special about it, and that little hitch of emotion never seems to go away.

Dean sits back, letting the fullness echo through every part of him. Cas rests his hands on Dean’s waist, thumbs stroking over hip bones. The room is dark but Dean can almost still see the blue of his eyes. Slowly, Dean starts to move, lifting up then sinking back down, lifting and lowering, thighs flexing. Cas’s hands roam before lacing his hand through Dean’s and pulling it to his mouth to suck on his fingers. Rocking faster, Dean feels Cas’s hips begin to move, rolling up to meet Dean, deepening each thrust until Dean is moaning, feeling every hot inch lighting him up inside. Dean pulls his hand from Cas’s mouth, letting wet fingers twist Cas’s hard nipples, tugging until Cas begins to chant his name.

Cas knows just when to reach for him, his long fingers wrapping around his aching cock. Dean’s close now, Cas filling him, surrounding him. His hips begin to stutter and Cas works him with intent until Dean’s orgasm reaches the tipping point and he pulses hot and wet onto Cas’s hand. Toppling forward, Dean’s chest heaves as he pants for air, managing a few breathless kisses as Cas continues to move inside him. Dean brushes his cheek against Cas’s, stubble catching with a whisper, and moves to dart his tongue into Cas’s ear. He’s rewarded with a gasp and Cas’s hands grip his lower back, fingers digging in as his whole body goes stiff and then he’s coming with long, deep thrusts.

Gently, Dean climbs off of him, collapsing onto the bed and groaning as he straightens his legs.

“You sound like an old man,” Cas teases, reaching back into the night stand for the towel they keep stashed there.

“A well-fucked old man,” Dean corrects him as Cas hands him the towel. Lazily, he wipes himself off.

“I could make this easier on you.” Cas rolls toward him, an arm tossed over Dean’s middle.

Dean shrugs. “This works for me.” He loves the anchoring weight of Cas on top of him when they’re making out, but when Cas is inside him, Dean likes to be on top, always has. Besides, Dean gets a bit of a bonus massage afterwards when Cas rubs his lower back.

He falls asleep to Cas’s soothing touch.


	2. Chapter 2

One good thing Dean got from his father was an early--and thorough--introduction to an engine. After years of dragging the boys around from one short-lived job to another, when Dean was ten and Sam was six, John miraculously snagged work at the local police department, helping to maintain their motorpool. His skill there was enough to have his co-workers asking to bring him their personal vehicles, which led to a thriving side business as he worked on cars from the detached garage behind their house. Dean began working as his father’s second in command from the time he was strong enough to tighten a bolt.

Over the years, Dean built on that foundation, starting first as a mechanic and working his way up until he was running his own shop. He even did well enough to open a second location across town six years ago. While he misses the days of getting his hands dirty, there’s unmistakeable pride and satisfaction at what he's accomplished. At heart, he still feels like the guy in the greasy coverall, but now he’s the one dressed in khakis and a polo shirt with his shop logo on it. Dress code aside, he likes being able to oversee the hiring of new staff, and he’s got a bit of reputation for giving people a chance to prove themselves. Not all of his risks pay off, of course, but enough of them have for him to keep extending those opportunities. He remembers what it meant to him and Sam once their dad was given a chance—no more living in motels, no more starting new schools. Even though his dad never quit drinking, he managed to hold on to that job, providing the boys with a stable living situation for the first time since their mother died.

If that weren’t motivation enough, Dean remembers how lost he was after his dad died. Fifteen, angry and confused, Dean was a mess and doing his best to be unlovable. He and Sam had been taken in by Bobby at that point, and Bobby had hung in there with him, as even-keeled as an ocean liner, waiting to be a lifeline when Dean stopped flailing in the open sea.

Dean never graduated high school--he was too far gone for that, but with Bobby’s guidance he managed a GED. His partying days gradually slowed and he raised himself out of the ashes of his childhood to become a valued member of the business community. It hasn’t quite reached the level of little league teams with _Winchester Automotive_ emblazoned on their uniforms, but it’s not like he hasn’t considered how that might look. For now, though, he buys advertising space on the high school team fundraisers and uses his connections to help procure classic cars to be driven in the homecoming parade.

He splits his time between the two locations, and even if his nails mostly stay clean, there’s never any shortage of things for him to do. Still, he can’t deny being the boss makes it easy on a day like today when he’s got to leave mid-afternoon for his dentist appointment.

“Sure you don’t need me to stay?” He gives Charlie a hopeful look. “I can reschedule.”

“We got the memo on this,” Charlie tells him. “Off you go, bossman.”

“Wait,” Dean says. “There was a _memo_?”

"Uh, sort of? More of a heads up that you’d be gone?”

Benny walks over to catch the last part of the conversation. “Dean has a dentist appointment at 3:30 on Wednesday,” he recites. “Do not fall for any of his stalling tactics.”

Why did he ever think it was a good idea to introduce Cas and Charlie? 

“Dental hygiene is important,” Charlie adds, with utter sincerity. “It’s okay to be scared---”

“I’m not scared of the dentist,” Dean says. “I just don’t like going. That’s different.”

Charlie thinks for a moment. “Maybe you could find one who makes house calls.” She looks entirely too pleased with herself.

“Maybe I could fire you for... insubordination or something.” 

Benny crosses his arms over his chest. “ _Maybe_ you should stop stalling and get to the dentist before I put you in the car myself.”

Dean takes a step forward until they’re standing nearly chest to chest. He may be an inch or so taller than Benny, but the guy’s got quite a few pounds on him. “I’d like to see you try.”

They stare at each other for a long moment before Dean cracks and starts to laugh.

Benny grins and slaps him on the shoulder. "Get outta here.”

“Fine,” Dean concedes. “Try not to run my business into the ground while I’m gone.”

***

The dentist office is perfectly pleasant. It’s bright and modern, and there’s a selection of comfy chairs to choose from in the waiting area. It’s Dean’s first time at this particular practice because he avoided the last one for so long, dodging their postcard and voice mail reminders, that going back there seemed like admitting defeat. Cas suggested trying the office where he goes and he’d even offered to come along with Dean to the appointment, but for fuck’s sake, he’s not a child.

He checks in with the receptionist, confirming that his old records have been sent over. He waits for a lecture, or at least a hint of raised eyebrow to indicate his lapse, but she’s nothing but friendly and professional. He takes a seat, rifling through a magazine as he waits, but he’s antsy and gets up, not to pace exactly, but to walk the length of the waiting room instead. He pretends he’s checking the view from the front window, and has to admit he feels better just from laying eyes on the Impala in the parking lot.

He knows it’s dumb. People go to the dentist every day--hell, even Henry doesn’t complain, always eager to show Dean the bouncy ball or rubbery alien he got with his token. Still, his palms are sweating and he nearly jumps out of his skin when the hygienist calls his name.

“Right this way, Mr. Winchester.” She introduces herself and reluctantly he follows her back, hesitating for a moment when she gestures for him to get into the chair. “I see it’s been a while since your last visit.”

“Uh, yeah.” He rubs at the back of his neck. “No good excuse, I guess.”

She gestures again for him to sit down and he settles into the chair. It’s not as bad as he thought and he feels himself begin to relax ever so slightly.

“You’re by no means alone in that. And often, like this, it’s a problem that finally brings people back into the office.”

“Well,” Dean says. “That and a persistent husband.”

She laughs. “We’re all big fans of Castiel around here.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I bet. Mr. I Floss Without Fail.”

“I’m just happy he thinks highly enough of us here to convince you to come see us.” She lays a hand on his shoulder. “I promise we’ll take good care of you.”

Dean pretends to look around. “He’s not hiding somewhere, is he? Like behind a potted plant to make sure I don’t take off again?”

She smiles. “Not as far as I know. So, let’s talk about what’s been going on.”

It’s not too bad when she sits on her rolling stool and takes his history, typing things into the computer. He tells her which tooth it is that hurts and how long ago it started. He even explains how he was raised by a single father who didn’t put much stock in preventative medicine.

She nods knowingly. “From your previous records, unless things have drastically changed since your last visit, I’d say you’ve dodged some bullets.” She clips the bib thingy around his neck and hands him the dark glasses. “Honestly, sometimes even people who follow the instructions to the letter have a lot of dental issues. So much of it is genetic.”

His hands begin to sweat as he slides on the glasses and his stomach swoops as she begins to recline the chair.

“Doing okay?”

He realizes he’s clenching the armrests and forces his fingers to uncurl from the vinyl. “Yeah.”

Reaching over him, she tugs the light into place, switching it on. “You’re doing great.”

“I know it’s dumb, but I just hate that light.”

“Huh,” she says. “If the glasses aren’t enough protection, you can just close your eyes.” That actually makes sense and he wonders why he never considered it before. “It helps if you have a happy place you can imagine yourself in. Pretend it’s a beach chair, maybe.”

Not happening, but he doesn’t want to tell her that because she’s very nice and doing her best.

“I’m going to ask you to open wide now. At any time if you need me to stop, just raise your hand.”

He nods and she waits, looking down at him expectantly. “Oh,” he says, and opens his mouth.

Almost immediately the panic sets in, but for the love of all things that are holy, he’s forty fucking years old and he can deal with the dentist. He tries closing his eyes like she suggested, but, as bad as the light is, shutting his eyes feels worse. At least with his eyes open, he can see when she leans back over him.

Nothing she’s doing in his mouth is causing him any discomfort, which makes all of this even more ridiculous but at least the shame of his overreaction is dulling the sharp spiky edges of the panic.

For her part, she’s narrating what she’s doing and, even though much of her face is hidden between the mask and safety glasses, the sound of her voice gives him a thread to hold on to. Somehow he tolerates x-rays (almost smiling to himself when she tells him to breathe through his nose--yeah, he’s got that skill covered) and the cleaning. Even though he’s half-convinced he’s going to stick to the chair based on sweat alone when he gets up, he’s feeling pretty good when she steps on the pedal to raise the chair to a seated position again.

“You did great,” she tells him. “Just a couple of minutes until the doctor is free to come take a look at you and then you’ll be on your way.”

He smiles at her, wondering if his freshly polished teeth glint like they do in a cartoon. “Thanks.”

She leaves and he pushes the dark glasses up on his head, glancing at the light with narrowed eyes. “Not so tough are you,” he tells it. He’s tempted to reach up and touch the textured glass surface, but he doesn’t know if that’s breaking some sterilization protocol so he keeps his hands in his lap. He tells himself that he’s almost done and, along with getting some relief for his tooth, Cas is going to be really pleased at how well it’s gone. He knows he probably needs a filling, if not more than one, but he’s proven to himself that he can come here and do this. Relief floods through him along with the pride of accomplishment.

When she comes back in with the dentist, a guy who looks like he’s twelve years old (everybody seems young to Dean these days), Dean resists the urge to ask if he just graduated from dental school last week.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” he says to Dean. “We always enjoy seeing your husband and he speaks highly of you.”

Dean smiles. “I outkicked my goal posts when I scored that guy.”

“Dean was apprehensive, but he’s done extremely well,” the hygienist says, and even though it makes him sound like a well-behaved child, Dean finds himself preening a bit.

“That’s terrific. Let me get in there and take a look and we’ll get you on your way.”

Dean slides the glasses into place and settles against the seat, ready for it to be tipped backwards. His heart begins to hammer again. We’ve got this, he tells himself. And then the doctor leans over him.

Despite having successfully managed this already, panic shoots into every cell of his body. It’s worse this time, to the point that he’s tempted to shove the dentist out of the way so he can get up and run out the door. He doesn’t do any of that, though; instead, he simply freezes. He can still hear the doctor’s voice, not soothing like a lifeline, but distant and echoey, distorted like he’s calling down into a well. Dean can’t even close his eyes, but they flick instantly to the light and he stares at it like somehow it’s going to save him. He keeps his hands on the armrests and complies with every request, mouth open, head turned. He nods appropriately when the dentist tells him what he’s seeing. Neither one of them say a thing about the way he’s freaking out, so apparently he’s got them fooled. It feels like forever, but the examination is done in much less time than the cleaning and then the chair is being righted again, the light switched off. Dean finds he can move again and he rips off the glasses and fumbles for the bib, but the hygienist removes it in a quick, smooth motion.

“All done,” she says cheerily. “Big breaths now.”

He doesn’t realize he’s nearly panting, breath coming in ragged gasps, as black spots dance before his eyes.

The dentist is staring at him appraisingly. “How about you sit there for a few minutes before you stand up. Teeth I can fix, but I’m no good with concussions.”

Dean shakes his head and _oh shit_ that’s a bad idea. Vertigo sweeps over him as he tries to get to his feet.

“Whoa,” the dentist says. There’s a regular straight-backed chair in the corner of the exam room and they help him to it, encouraging him to sit with his head between his knees. When he’s able to sit up again, the hygienist is there with a cup of water.

Gratefully, Dean takes it. The water is cold and good and he slowly starts to feel like himself. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Dunno what happened.”

She smiles at him. “Not a big deal. Lots of people get a head rush when they get up too fast. Take your time.”

Heart rate slowing, Dean blows out a long breath. “I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I?”

“Hey, the dentist's office is like Vegas. What happens here stays here.”

Dean manages a laugh. “This is the worst casino I’ve ever been to.” He gets to his feet, aware of her eyes on him. “I’m good now.”

“In case you missed it, the doctor does want you to come back for a couple of fillings. One big one on the tooth that’s giving you the problem and two smaller ones. We do have sedation available if you think that would help, but you’ll need someone to drive you home afterwards.” She goes to a cabinet and pulls out a brochure. ”Here’s some info about it that I’ll tuck it into your goody bag. What color toothbrush would you like?”

Dean takes his bag, checks out with the receptionist, and leaves. In the parking lot, he vomits into the bushes.

Driving home, he’s unsettled to the point that any relief at having the visit over is thoroughly eclipsed. Maybe it’s more the embarrassment for nearly passing out, or for ruining his nice clean teeth with an unexpected dose of stomach acid. He hadn’t even felt sick, the walk across the parking lot easy and effortless up until the moment he was bent over, losing his lunch. Maybe he should’ve tried some way to clean it up, gone back inside to alert the staff or something, but instead he got into the car and drove off as quickly as he could. He pulls into their driveway and sees Cas walking back from the communal mailbox. The sight of him--shirt sleeves rolled up, dark hair ruffled in the breeze--does more for Dean’s mood than anything else can and he greets Dean as he gets out of the car.

“How’d it go?”

He shrugs a little. Dean Winchester’s first instinct will never be to talk about his goddamn feelings—it simply isn’t in his DNA, but he’s lived with Cas long enough to know that telling the truth is the way to go. “I survived.”

“I knew you would.” he adds, leaning in for a kiss and Dean has to put a hand up to stop him.

“Just barely, cause I puked in the parking lot after.” As he watches, Cas’s big blue eyes go from pride to pity.

“Oh no, I’m sorry. You okay now?” Cas reaches a gentle hand to Dean’s forehead, like maybe he has a fever.

“I’m not sick, I just... freaked out a bit, I guess.”

Cas puts an arm around his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I guess I didn’t realize how stressed you were. I should’ve come with you.”

“Nah, that would’ve been worse, I think.”

They walk into the townhouse together. “Maybe getting this one out of the way will help?”

Dean sighs. “I hope so because I need three cavities filled.” He holds out the bag. “I was so pathetic she suggested maybe getting sedation for that.”

Taking the bag, Cas pulls out the brochure. “Might not be the worst thing.”

“I guess.” Dean reaches for the bag again. “Lemme go brush my teeth and then you can tell me about your day.”

Teeth clean (again), he stares at himself for a long time in the mirror. He looks pale and the lines around his eyes seem harder. “Taken down by the fucking dentist,” he mutters. “Ridiculous.”

“I have good news,” Cas tells him, when he comes back out of the bathroom. “I got us a showing at that house tomorrow at five.”

Dean perks up. “That’s awesome. Hey, maybe we could go get dinner at the burger place afterwards.”

“Yeah,” Cas agrees. “Imagine if we get the house. We could walk there whenever we want.”

“Yeah, well, we’d have to.” Dean pats his own stomach and smiles as Cas laughs. “This metabolism ain’t what it used to be.”

Cas pulls him close, hands loose and easy on Dean’s waist. “Pretty sure we took a vow that covers that.”

Dean kisses him. “In fast metabolism and slow?”

“Something like that.

Resting his head on his husband’s shoulder, Dean lets the stress of the day fall away.

***

The house is incredible. It’s not huge, but the square footage has been well-designed. Dean stands behind the kitchen island with his arms outstretched while Cas runs his hand lovingly over the built in bookshelves flanking the fireplace. “This counter space. Like I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

Their realtor is a lovely woman named Melanie and Dean’s pretty sure she rolls out of bed perfectly coiffed. She smiles at them indulgently. “The kitchen was redone three years ago and the entire place has new carpeting. Ready to see the rest?”

She leads them up the stairs, Dean bringing up the rear. If he reaches out to rub Cas’s ass on the way up, well, no right-minded jury in the world would convict him for not resisting that temptation. Dean grins when Cas slaps at his hand, never missing a beat in his discussion with Melanie about the size of the water heater.

The master bedroom is bright and airy, with even a tiny balcony. It’s only big enough for a couple of chairs, but still. Dean’s already imagining drinking coffee there with Cas on lazy weekend mornings.

“You mentioned your nephew comes to visit a lot?” She says when they’ve checked the view from all the bedroom windows, peered in the closet, and marveled at the master bath.

Cas nods. “Yes. He’s nine.”

She leads them down the hall and opens a door. It’s a good sized bedroom that overlooks the front of the house. A built in window seat is enticingly covered with a large, comfy cushion. As they admire it, she pulls open a drawer under it. “Kids love window seats… and they always need extra storage.”

“He would love this,” Dean says, and Cas nods in agreement.

They walk through the upstairs, checking out the third bedroom which would work perfectly for an office for Cas/guest room and the other full bath upstairs. The look on Cas’s face tells Dean he’s already mentally arranging the furniture they have. Back downstairs again, Melanie turns to Dean.

“I understand you were looking for a home with a workshop? Castiel told me you’re a car guy.”

Something about that sounds a little bit dismissive, but Dean knows it’s his own issue. “I own two garages in town,” he begins, and that’s something that he’s never able to say without wanting to qualify it somehow. Like taking over an existing business and expanding it counts less than if he’d built it up from the ground. He realizes she’s still looking at him, waiting for a response. “But yes, it would be nice to have a place to work on my car at home.”

Melanie opens the back door with a flourish. “I think this will do the trick.” She walks them across the patio and through the backyard. It’s not huge, but the mature and well-tended plantings surround a grassy space that would give Henry plenty of room to play. “Since there’s also the attached two car garage, you could use this space however you wanted.” She unlocks the door and flips on a switch, illuminating fluorescent tube lights across the ceiling. It’s a spacious workshop, empty and swept clean but there are shelves and peg boards and a workbench. “It’s fully insulated. Maybe need a heater in the winter but otherwise it should be pretty comfortable year round.”

It was clearly well-designed. Dean notes outlets and storage laid out in convenient places. The workshop they had growing up was much cruder, only lit by a series of work lights plugged into extension cords, and John was so busy it was generally full of engine parts and assorted junk. This is many steps up from that and Dean turns in a slow circle taking it in.

Cas reaches for his hand. “It’s even better than the pictures.”

“It’s great,” Dean agrees, absently rubbing at his temple.

When they’ve had their fill of looking, Melanie opens the door to usher them out again and they begin to walk back toward the house. “I know there’s another showing this evening,” she tells them. “This place isn’t going to last long.”

“We'll need to talk about it, of course, but this is everything we’ve been looking for, wouldn’t you say, Dean?” Dean has fallen behind and Cas turns to him as they reach the patio again.

“It’s too close to the house.”

“What is?”

“The shop. I think it’s too close to the house.”

“Are you concerned about noise?”

Dean nods. “The tools… it’s a lot of noise. I like the place a lot, I just wish it wasn’t so close.”

Cas tips his head. “Not like we have babies who would be disturbed by it.”

“No, I know, it’s just. I wish it were a little more spread out.”

The realtor gives them a practiced smile. “That’s exactly why seeing a house in person is important.” She nods toward the gate that leads along the side of the house and back to the street. “I need to lock the place up, so you gentlemen can come in with me or see yourselves out that way.”

Dean nods and takes a step toward the gate. “Thanks.”

She turns to Cas. “Talk about it and let me know. You’ve got my card?”

“Yes.” Cas shakes her hand. “Thank you so much.” He follows Dean out toward the street. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Why?”

“You look like you have a headache.”

Dean drops his hand from where he’s rubbing at his temple again. “I do. It just came on all of a sudden. I think maybe I clenched my jaw stressing over the dentist.”

“Will a burger help?”

“Always.”

They drive the quick couple of blocks to the shopping district. Dean’s not really one for strolling around, but he has to admit it would be nice to have so many things so close at hand. He parks the Impala and by the time they get out, a woman’s voice is calling to them.

“I’d know that hunk of junk anywhere.” Officer Jody Mills is standing there, clearly off-duty in jeans and a sweater.

Dean lets his mouth drop open in mock horror. “Madam, you have cut me to the core. Avenge my honor, Cas.”

“Will do,” Cas says as he strides to where she stands, gathering her into a bear hug. Dean hugs her next; she may be small, but there’s no questioning her strength.

“What are you guys doing over this way?” Her eyes narrow. “Burgers, right?”

“It’s no wonder they made you a detective,” Dean says. “Your powers of deduction are incredible.”

“Listen,” she says. “I brought the two of you together, you have to speak to me with more respect.”

“It’s been fourteen years,” they chorus and all three of them laugh.

She slings an arm around each of them. “You two are my proudest creation.”

“You have a son,” Cas points out.

“Yeah, and he’s on my last nerve. You two did it the right way… although one day Henry will be a teenager himself.”

“We’ve got some time,” Dean says. “He’s only nine.”

Cas sighs. “Almost ten, as he’s fond of reminding us.”

Jody nods. “Double digits. That’s a big deal.”

Dean winces, rubbing his temple again. Cas notices and says, “This one’s getting--as the kids say--hangry. You want to join us?”

“Thanks, I wish I could, but Owen has a last minute need for poster board for a project he’s known about for weeks that’s due _tomorrow_.”

Dean gives her a sympathetic look. “No wonder we’re your favorites.”

“We just were looking at a house in the neighborhood. If things go right, we may end up seeing more of you.”

Jody grins. “That would be awesome. Let me know how you feel about part-time teenager custody.”

They say their goodbyes and Dean holds open the restaurant door for Cas. The interior is crowded, bustling with music and noisy families. They’re seated at a small table in the middle of the dining room and while Dean is checking out the crowd, he finds Cas looking at him.

“What?”

“How’s your headache?”

Dean thinks for a moment. All of this sound and chaos should be making it worse, but it seems to have lessened. “Better, actually.” He picks up the menu. “I think I’m just hungry.”

When the server comes to take their drink orders, Cas insists on ordering an appetizer. With that out of the way, he leans forward. “So. The house.”

Sucking in a deep breath, Dean revisits it in his mind. “So many good features. The kitchen is terrific.”

“But?”

“What did you think?” he asks instead of answering.

“I thought it ticked all our boxes. Great location, room and a yard for Henry, workshop for you.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “It was almost perfect.”

“You think it’s too close to the house.”

“Yeah.” Dean can’t explain it, not exactly. “I worry about the noise.”

“Anything with a bigger yard is probably going to take us out of that area,” Cas says reasonably. “There’s always going to be a tradeoff and, at least for me, noise--that you control--seems like a pretty decent one.” He smiles at Dean. “I mean, unless you’re planning on some pre-dawn engine work.”

“Definitely not.” Dean wishes he could put words to his hesitation. Maybe it’s because this is such a big commitment. He doesn’t doubt his commitment to Cas--or Cas’s to him--but it’s so much money. All their savings. And it’s not like they don’t already have a perfectly fine place to live.

Cas, as always, seems to read his mind. “A house is a big investment, but it’s not like we’re throwing that money away. We’ve been renting for so many years… a house becomes an asset.”

“I know. And it’s really a great house. I just--can we just look at a few more options first?”

“This one might not wait around while we do.”

“It’s a risk, I know. I wish I could say yes to this one…” The server arrives with drinks and their appetizer. “Maybe after I eat.”

“It’s a big decision,” Cas assures him. “I want it to feel right for both of us.”

Dean stabs a tortilla chip into some queso. “What’s that saying? The enemy of good is perfect?”

“It’s true, nothing is ever perfect.”

Dean can’t believe that, not when Cas is sitting there across from him, hair perfectly unruly and eyes perfectly blue. “You are.”

He gets a raised eyebrow at that. “Sweet talking me after one-third of your beer? You’re getting soft in your old age.”

Dean leans in. “You didn’t think so the other night.” He dips another chip, licking a bit of cheese from his lip, watching as Cas’s gaze drops to his mouth as he does.

“I’d live with you in a tent.”

Laughing, Dean reaches for his beer. “I promise you it won’t come to that.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Henry!” Dean stands in the empty yard, turning to survey it. “Henry!” He calls for his nephew again before stopping to listen, the faint sound of distress carrying from a direction he can’t quite place. He knew this house was wrong—he tried to tell Cas—but somehow Cas convinced him to buy it. It’s supposed to be a haven for Henry, a place they can all be together, but the very first time Henry’s come to visit, Dean’s managed to lose him.

He runs from the backyard, misjudging the distance and slamming his shoulder into the edge of the house. Pushing off from it, he runs along the side, skidding to a stop in the front yard. The street is quiet, but there are dangers everywhere: cars, strangers, a drainage culvert. He calls Henry’s name again and _where the fuck is Cas?_ He holds his breath to stop his own panting from filling his ears as he tries to zero in on the sound. Henry’s voice keeps coming back to him, softly pleading for help, but no matter where Dean stands, he can’t make the voice get any closer or further away.

Yanking open the front door, he calls again for Cas to come help but finds himself standing in an echoing empty room instead. It’s just like when they toured it, devoid of all furniture. No sign of their belongings, nothing to show they live there. Dean runs through the house calling for Henry, Cas, _anyone_ , but every door he throws open leads to more emptiness. Frantically, he pulls open closets, even jerks open the built-in drawer under the window seat but there’s nothing. He can’t catch his breath, he can’t find his phone, he doesn’t know what to do and the thundering of his own heart is making it impossible to hear Henry’s thin cries. He runs from room to room, looking out windows to try and get a view of the yard from above and that’s when he sees it: a single light in the workshop.

Dean knows he checked there already, knows there was nothing but a layer of sawdust and a row of empty shelves. Still, he’s certain he needs to get back in there and save Henry. The more he tries, the more it feels like the house itself is trying to stop him from getting to his nephew. He pounds his way down the stairs, ten, twelve, thirty, they seem to never end, and he knows there weren’t this many when he flew up them a few minutes ago. Like a bad cartoon, doors open into brick walls, and the ones he _can_ walk through bring him right back to where he started. He runs down the stairs again, dozens and dozens of them, but he can’t get any closer. His teeth grind in frustration until at long last he finds a door that leads to the backyard. Just as he pulls it open--the green of the grass fluorescently and obscenely bright after the grim emptiness of the house--he finally locates Cas. Or his voice at least. It’s coming from somewhere nearby.

“Dean,” he says, softly but urgently. “Dean, wake up.”

Dean bolts to a sitting position, shoving Cas away in the process. His chest is heaving like he’s run a marathon. “Henry,” he says, and his throat is sore.

Cas’s voice is calm. “Henry’s fine. It was just a nightmare. I’m going to turn on the light, okay?”

Mutely, Dean nods, blinking away the light even though he knew it was coming. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“Been a long time since you had one of those,” Cas says, reaching for his hand.

“I’m sweaty.” Dean starts to pull away.

“I don’t care.” Cas takes his hand, damp palm and all.

Dean used to have nightmares, back when they first met. Dreams about the wreck that killed his dad, mostly. He had a recurring one in which he came across the accident scene and knew Sam was in there too, trapped in the wreckage. The police who arrived didn’t seem to understand what Dean was saying to them, insisting to him that there weren’t any other victims. He’d yell, desperately trying to convince them to find and save his brother, pulling out of their restraining grasp until he was frantically yanking at the twisted metal, hands bleeding as he tried to get to Sam. He’d wake when the cops would grab him and throw him to the ground, pinning him down as he continued to scream.

Somehow, those hadn’t scared Cas off. At first, Dean pretended like he didn’t remember them, all the while feeling guilty as Cas soothed him with gentle embraces and soft kisses. Eventually, though, he opened up. It didn’t take Freud to figure out that Dean blamed himself for his father’s death and the subsequent disintegration of his family. He’d spent too much time being mad at John and not enough time trying to help him.

At one point Cas suggested Dean might want to talk to someone about these things, but Dean found that just talking with Cas helped. Besides, he already knew what his issues were. No amount of head shrinking was going to change that. Over time the nightmares eased, and when they did on occasion return, Dean could point to reasons why, like a birthday or some other significant date.

This one felt different. Even though Dean could barely hear him in the dream, he’s rattled by Henry’s terrified cries. The memory of his little voice puts a new shiver through Dean and he pulls his hand out of Cas’s. “I’m gonna hit the head.”

In the bathroom he tugs at his sweat-dampened t-shirt and splashes cold water on his face. He looks like shit: eyes wide with fear and sharp lines around his tightened mouth. “Just a dream,” he tells himself, trying to slow his breathing before heading back to the bedroom.

Cas sits waiting, leaning against the headboard, blue eyes watching his every move. “You wanna talk about it?”

Dean knows it’s alright either way; Cas won’t hold it against him. But he’s already interrupted his husband’s sleep so he figures it’s the least he can do.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Dean scrubs a hand over his face. “I couldn’t find Henry. I could hear him but I couldn’t get to him.” He decides not to mention the house specifically. “You know how dreams are… the stairs kept expanding, the place turned into a maze.”

“That sounds awful.”

“It was not great,” Dean agrees.

“You want to try and sleep some more?”

Dean checks the clock. It’s just before 5 am and their alarm won’t go off for two more hours. He shakes his head. “I think I’m gonna shower.” He leans over to kiss Cas. “You go back to sleep.”

Cas is already slipping back down under the covers. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

He spends a long time letting the hot water work on the tension in his neck and shoulders as he slowly and deliberately breathes in steamy air. He remembers slamming into the corner of the house as he searched for Henry and he swears he can still feel the impact on his shoulder.

By the time he comes out, dried and dressed, Cas is sound asleep, snoring softly. Dean smiles at him then goes downstairs to start the coffee.

***

Some days Dean’s still not sure how this became his life. He’s got a successful business, a loving husband, and a solid, boring home life. After a childhood fraught with loss and chaos, he never stops savoring exactly how precious that is.

As a boy, all Dean could see was what he didn’t have. A mom, a dad who didn’t drink, a chance to be a kid. Now that he’s an adult, Dean understands how the grief and trauma wore on his father. He can appreciate how relentless it was trying to raise two young sons single-handedly in the midst of that fog of misery. He knows John did his best. He was generally a mean drunk, angry and combative, but Dean has memories of his father clinging to Dean, crying and apologizing, too. Still, that steady place to live made all the difference, especially for Sam, and Dean will forever thank his father for providing it. Sam was only five when John got the job with the police department, only eleven when their father died late one night in a drunk driving accident. Sam continued to thrive when Bobby took them in, but for Dean it was too late. He didn’t have it in him to start again.

He thinks about the way he went off the rails: drinking, getting into fights, dropping out of high school. What did it matter? He knew he was never college material. He did the bare minimum to get by, toed the line just enough so that Bobby wouldn’t throw him out. Despite all the losses he’d already experienced, Dean knew losing Sam was something he’d never come back from.

If he could go back in time and tell his seventeen-year-old self where he’d end up… he shakes his head at the very thought. He wouldn’t even dump the whole bi thing on himself since the very concept of “settled down” was gonna be a big enough pill to swallow. He imagines trying to explain that he’d one day be happily ensconced in a relationship, living in a respectable townhouse with plants and throw pillows and shit. Honestly, he’s pretty sure that would be a waste of time because no doubt his past self would punch him dead in the face.

He remembers how exhausting it was to be so angry all the time, even as he tried to bury it under layers of bravado and being too cool to care. He’s changed so much over the years that sometimes he can hardly believe he was ever the previous versions of himself. Especially now, living domestic life to its fullest. Like these breakfasts they have each morning together… the little details of their routine, like the two travel mugs set out next to the coffee pot or the local news playing quietly on the television. Someday soon they’ll be starting the day like this in their very own house.

“What are you thinking about?” Cas asks, eyebrows up in amusement. “You’re smiling at nothing.”

Dean pulls himself back into the moment and rearranges his expression. “Big engines. Beer. Manly things.”

Taking a pointed sip of coffee, Cas gives him a look that says _sure_.

Dean nods at the tv screen. “Gonna rain later. Better take your umbrella.” Cas doesn’t answer, but he hooks his foot between Dean’s ankles, and Dean relaxes into it. “Okay, _fine_ , I was thinking about you. Or us, I guess.” He shrugs. “It’ll be nice to have breakfasts in our own house.”

“Well, not unless we can find one we both agree on,” Cas says airily, and Dean tries and fails not to hear a rebuke in his words. “Something’s gonna have to give.”

“That one sold?”

“It’s under contract.”

It’s been a few days since Dean had that nightmare. With that behind him, he wonders if he’s judged the house too harshly. Dean thinks back to the balcony off the bedroom and the bright, open kitchen. It was so close to perfect. He pictures the workshop again, rubbing at his eye, blinking his vision clear.

“Another headache?”

“No,” Dean says honestly. “I keep getting flashes of like, light or something though.”

Cas looks at him with concern and Dean’s just petty enough to be grateful that this has moved them on from discussion of that house. “My mother had something like that. It was her retina, I think. I can ask her what the doctor told her.”

“Seriously?” He still hasn’t followed up with the dentist. “Another one of my body parts giving up the ghost?”

“You do realize that normal people go to the doctor regularly?”

“My family didn’t roll that way.”

Cas laughs, ‘You don’t say.” They both remember Dean having to get bloodwork done as an adult because they were unable to find records accurately documenting his basic childhood immunizations.

“I can’t believe Naomi and I finally have something in common.”

Full of mock outrage, Cas gestures to himself. “Oh yes, the very first thing!”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’ll check in with her today and let you know what she says.”

“Okay,” Dean says brightly. “I look forward to ignoring her advice.”

Cas gets up, running a hand through Dean’s hair before stacking the dishes. “That's my boy.”

Dean gets up to fill the travel mugs, adding sugar to Cas’s. “I’m stopping by Bobby’s after work today but I figured we can do the leftover lasagna for dinner.”

“Sounds good. Tell Bobby hello for me.”

“Will do. And, uh, you tell Naomi something for me.”

Cas leans a hip against the counter. “And that would be… ”

Dean ponders for a moment. Naomi has always tolerated him but it’s been abundantly clear that this was never the life she had planned for her son. Even though Cas was out long before he met Dean, Dean’s pretty sure Naomi somehow blames Dean for making him gay. “Tell her thanks for giving birth to my hot husband.”

***

Retina issues, says Naomi. Visual migraines are Bobby’s diagnosis. Whatever it is, it’s driving Dean batshit. Nothing in particular seems to set them off but they’re distracting as fuck. Yeah, he fucking googled--sue him--and while retinal tears are supposed to manifest as singular flashes of light and migraine auras as shimmery patches, neither of those quite seem to fit. And even though he’s started getting sharp, sudden headaches, they aren’t related to the vision stuff.

“It’s almost like there’s something just out of my field of vision,” he tells Cas one evening as they’re getting ready for bed. “Like if I turned my head fast, I might see it.”

Also, he’s pretty sure it’s a brain tumor.

Cas peers in his eyes, and Dean still feels something in his chest flutter a little bit when Cas’s entire focus is on him. “I wouldn’t advise that. You seem to be in a delicate enough state as it is.” Dean rolls his eyes but honestly Cas is right. One quick move and he’ll be in traction next. “When’s your appointment?”

“Still another week.” Dean didn’t want to go to the doctor, but now that he’s decided this is something dire, the frustration of having to start with his regular doctor before he can get a referral to a specialist feels unbearable.

“What can I do to help?”

Dean takes out his toothbrush and busies himself putting toothpaste on it. “Nothing.”

“Dean.”

“What?”

“Did you google your symptoms?”

“Maybe,” he mutters.

“Dean,” Cas says, more gently this time.

Dean sets down the toothbrush and toothpaste. “Eyes and brains are connected. That’s just a fact.”

“They are,” Cas agrees, “but there are lots of other connections as well.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. That’s why we let the professionals tell us.”

“It could be something bad, Cas. Like, really bad.” It’s too hard to look at Cas directly right now, but Dean meets his gaze in the mirror over the sink.

“ _Or_ ,” he suggests. “Maybe it’ll be fine.”

Dean scoffs. “When has that ever happened?”

“Plenty of times. Dean, listen.” Cas takes him by the shoulder, turning him so they’re facing each other. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it. That much I can promise you.”

Dean immediately feels better, and he pushes down the nagging thought that he should’ve spoken these fears to Cas earlier. He even notices the flashes ease as he lies in bed with Cas’s arm over his waist, his strong chest pressed against Dean’s back. Dean falls asleep to the rhythm of their heartbeats.

***

As the week progresses, it seems that the nightmare was nothing but an isolated incident. Despite the stress of waiting for his doctor’s appointment, Dean has a good stretch, busy and distracted at work while Cas is back to scouring the real estate ads.

The cherry on top of the good week sundae is that Sam and Eileen have an event to go to Friday evening which means Henry is coming to spend the night. He tries his hardest to convince Dean to pick him up straight from school, but Eileen puts the kibosh on that, insisting he come home on the bus and then pack his overnight bag.

“There was no reason for you to leave work early,” Eileen tells Dean when he swings by the house.

Henry is already there at his mother’s side, scowling, his backpack stuffed to overflowing. “I hate the bus.”

Dean loves his nephew. He loves everything about him, his quirks and the way he goes all in on whatever current nerdy passion has captured his interest. He loves how cute he looks in his glasses that he’s had to wear since he was a toddler. But he also knows that other kids don’t look upon him as generously and he’s had a hard time making friends at school. No doubt the bus--a free-for-all on a good day--is one the worst parts for him. “I could’ve--” he begins.

Eileen knows him well enough to know what he’s going to say. “He’s fine. I promise.” She turns her attention to her son. “Sometimes we all have to do things we don’t like. That’s part of life.”

Dean knows his job is to keep his face neutral and his mouth shut, not undermining Eileen’s parenting in any way, He does exactly that even as Henry looks to him for support. Distractedly Henry nods at his mother before turning back to Dean. “Can we go now?”

He gestures to the Impala. “Your chariot awaits.”

“Bye, Mom!” Henry starts down the front steps and Dean snags him by a backpack strap.

“Go say goodbye to your mother properly.”

Eileen gives Dean a smile and holds out her arms for Henry to come hug her. He gives her a quick squeeze and makes sure he’s facing her when he says and signs “See you tomorrow.” She lays her hand briefly on his cheek before he turns away again.

He’s lanky like Sam was as a kid, his hair dark and his eyes more brown than hazel. He’s a good mixture of both his parents, but he’s got Dean’s freckles. Dean watches him head to the car, then turns to Eileen. “You guys have fun. No rush getting him in the morning.”

She hugs him. “Thanks. And thank Cas for us.”

“Will do.”

Henry has already loaded his backpack in the back seat and buckled himself into the front when Dean gets there. If the freckles didn’t announce their bond, Henry’s love of the Impala surely does. “See, if you’d picked me up, I could’ve shown her off.”

Dean smiles but then fakes a shudder. “All those irresponsible children, though. We don’t want their grimy hands near her.”

Henry laughs. “That’s true.” He reaches over to turn on the radio and classic rock fills the car. He eyes Dean for a moment then cranks up the volume. Dean keeps one eye on Henry, watching as he sits back, one skinny arm on the armrest in a perfectly mirrored copy of Dean’s driving pose. He even begins to bob his head a little to the music. “Dad told me that when you were ten, Grandpa John said you were old enough to work on her.”

“That’s true,” Dean agrees. He can remember six-year-old Sam stamping his foot in anger at not being allowed to join them in the garage. “Gotta be old enough to work carefully and respectfully.”

“I’ll be ten in three months,” Henry reminds him. It seems to Dean that he’s been claiming himself as “almost ten” even since he turned nine.

“You get to help already.”

Henry huffs out a breath. “Washing. That doesn’t count.”

Dean looks at him with his eyes wide. “You don’t think that’s important?” He pats the dashboard. “Don’t listen to Henry, Baby.”

Henry grins like he always does when Dean acts like the car can understand him. “Uncle Dean, cars can’t talk.”

“What’s that?” Dean pauses like he’s listening. “No, he doesn’t mean it.” He turns to his nephew. “Next you’ll be telling me she doesn’t have feelings.”

Henry rolls his eyes, but when Dean turns back to look at the road, he sees Henry dart out one small hand to give the glove compartment a quick and surreptitious pat.

“I’m gonna go to camp this summer,” he announces.

“You are?” It’s the first Dean’s heard of that.

‘Yeah, a nature camp. Mom and Dad showed me the website. There’s a pond and you can go canoeing and nature walks and stuff.”

“Well, that sounds like the perfect camp for you.” He happens to know Cas is bringing home two more books from the library today all about amphibians.

“Yeah, even nighttime nature walks to look for owls and toads!”

“Wait,” Dean says. “Sleepaway camp?”

“Yeah.”

Dean grips the wheel a little more tightly. “For how long?”

“A week. In August.”

“Wow, that’s a big deal.” Other than spending nights at his uncles’ house and a handful of sleepovers with friends over the years, Dean knows Henry hasn’t been away from home for any length of time. “Anybody else you know going?”

“No,” Henry says, then quickly adds, “but that’s okay.”

Dean makes a noncommittal sound, immediately seeing through the plan. It makes sense that Sam and Eileen might try putting him in an environment with a new set of peers, especially those who share his interests. Honestly, it’s not a bad idea. He’s not sure what to say in response but he needn’t have worried because Henry delves into a long story about flying frogs in the rainforest that lasts until they’re pulling into the townhouse’s driveway.

“Uncle Cas is home!” Henry’s delight at seeing Cas is yet another thing they have in common. Dean will be lucky if he can pull Cas away long enough to get a kiss hello. Sure enough, Henry goes tearing out of the car and up the walk to the front door, leaving Dean to reach into the backseat to grab the backpack along with his work bag and coffee mug. By the time he gets inside, Henry is sitting next to Cas on the couch, flipping through the new books and talking excitedly.

“Honey, I’m home,” Dean calls. “Found a small ruffian along the way.”

Henry looks up expectantly. “What’s a ruffian?”

“He means you.” Cas says.

“Oh,” he sinks back against the couch. “I thought it was an animal.”

“Technically…” Dean says, coming over to kiss Cas hello. “How was your day?”

“Better now,” Cas tells him. “Computer system went down for an hour so that was delightful.”

“Did you have to pull out the little stamper thingy? Definitely the coolest part of being a librarian.”

“Dean, you know perfectly well we haven’t had those in years.”

Dean thinks for a moment, then waits until Henry is absorbed again in his book to waggle his eyebrows at his husband. “I wonder if I could order one on the internet.”

Cas doesn’t answer, but gives him a small, sly smile and puts a hand on Dean’s butt. “What time should we order the pizza?”

“Henry, you hungry?” Henry nods, never lifting his head from the book. “Okay, I’ll order. Think fast!” With his usual lack of reflexes, Henry slowly looks up to see Dean holding out his backpack. “Go put this in your room.”

Getting to his feet, Henry holds out his arms. “Throw it.”

Dean takes a step closer and tosses it the two feet. Henry staggers backwards a step but holds onto it. “Nice catch!”

He and Cas share pleased looks as he leaves the room. “Maybe all the frisbee throwing helped.”

“Maybe. Hey, he told me he’s going to sleepaway camp this summer. For a week.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, like a nature camp?”

Cas considers that. “He’ll probably love that. Chance to meet some other kids who share his interests.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what Sam and Eileen are thinking but a week? That seems like a bit much.”

Cas shrugs. “I did some three weeks sessions while I was growing up. I have a lot of great memories.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t get along with your parents.”

“Camp is a great time to experience some independence. It can really help build a kid’s confidence.”

Dean rubs at the back of his neck. “I guess, it’s just… going from a night with us now and then to a full week away? Seems like a big jump.”

“I don’t think it’s unreasonable at all. And if it’s a bunch of nature activities he’ll probably love it.”

“You just hear so many stories,” Dean says slowly. “How do we know this place is… safe?”

Cas puts an arm around his waist. “I have no doubt Sam and Eileen did their research. Did Henry seem excited when he told you about it?”

“He did,” Dean admits.

“It’s good for him to have something to look forward to,” Cas says, pulling out the pizza menu from the junk drawer. “Should we get some breadsticks too?”

***

That night Dean quietly opens the door to check on Henry before he goes to bed himself. Their spare room/office has a chair that unfolds into a bed, but at the rate Henry is growing it isn’t going to fit him much longer. And it’s not helping that Henry is sleeping almost on the edge of the bed, the two large stuffed frogs he brought with him nestled carefully between him and the wall. Dean steps into the room, repositioning the frogs and situating Henry a little closer to the center. The kid sleeps like the dead, barely even stirring as Dean moves him. Dean leans over to plant a kiss on his forehead before leaving the room.

Back in their room, Cas is sitting up in bed reading. Maybe getting older sucks but the sight of Cas with his reading glasses on never fails to delight Dean. “Hey there, old man.”

“He asleep?”

“Dead to the world. Didn’t even notice when I moved him so he wouldn’t fall out. I think he brought his two biggest stuffed animals with him.”

Cas pushes his glasses up onto his head and smiles. “He’s so big in some ways and still so little in others.”

“Yeah.” Dean climbs into bed himself. “Sam told him how Dad let me start helping him in the garage when I was ten, so now he’s angling for that.”

“Ten, huh? Somehow I pictured you in a highchair with a spoon in one hand and a wrench in the other.”

Dean laughs at that. “Dad probably would’ve loved that but I’m pretty sure Mom wouldn’t have gone for it.” A silence stretches out between them. Dean doesn’t bring up his mother much, as his memories are mere disjointed glimpses of her: a pretty face framed by bright blonde hair, Dean sitting in the kitchen on a high stool watching her put a pie in the oven, her coming home from the hospital on a rainy day with tiny baby Sam in her arms. He’s never even sure how many of these memories are his own, or if they come from pictures he’s seen or stories his Dad or Bobby told. He keeps them guarded close, as if baring them to the world would fade them like sunshine on a photograph. “She would’ve loved being a grandma,” he ventures, his voice soft.

Cas lays a hand on his. “I wish I could’ve known her.”

Dean’s voice goes a little hard. “Yeah, well, you and me both, really.”

“I know you and Sam grew up sort of rough,” Cas says and Dean outright snorts. Cas knows what John was like, knows about the drinking and the dumping them off on Bobby. He knows the toll it took on the boys when John wasn’t able to outrun his demons even when the rest of their life seemed to settle in once place. “I was trying to be delicate,” Cas says with a knowing smile, “but my point is that you and Sam took what you didn’t get and, instead of being angry about it, made sure Henry got everything you missed.”

Dean sinks back against the pillows. “We were plenty angry,” he points out, “but you’re right. Having Henry in our lives was… healing, in a way I guess.”

“A chance to right past wrongs.”

“We sure as fuck never got to go to camp.”

“Did you ever want to?”

Dean thinks for a moment. “I wanted to do whatever it was normal kids did. But leaving Sam behind for something like that? Nah.”

Cas nods. “It’s different being an only child. Camp was great because I got to have some independence and try a bunch of new things. I think that’ll be good for Henry. And most of these places know exactly how to deal with a homesick kid… usually by keeping them so busy that they don’t have time for anything else.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Dean wants to believe it. He loves these nights when Henry comes to them and Dean can go to bed knowing he’s right in the next room, safe and happy. Years ago, he and Cas talked about having kids, back when things were first starting to get pretty serious between them. Dean remembers a feeling of dread washing over him, knowing he needed to be honest about it even if it meant Cas would find somebody else, someone more aligned with his wants and needs. He knew Cas loved kids. He’d started out as a librarian because he thought he preferred books to people, but after a year on the job, he’d become so enamored with working in the children’s section that he went back to school to specialize in that.

Dean had clawed his way out of his own upbringing to get where he was, but the idea that he could fuck up a kid and put him through any semblance of what he’d been through was enough to swear him off it. They’d been sitting in Cas’s apartment at the time, beer bottles in front of them. Dean wore his dad’s old ring back in those days and he remembers twisting it on his finger as he tried to make himself clear. “I’m not cut out to be a parent,” he’d said. “I can still barely take care of myself. If that’s something you want… ” he’d trailed off, unable to even speak the words. Knowing Cas, loving him—it had lodged in his carefully guarded heart like nothing ever had and he was quite sure nothing ever would again.

Cas had nodded, his blue eyes thoughtful, looking at Dean in that way that said his opinion mattered, that it was as important as anyone else on earth’s. “I would never want to push you into something you didn’t want,” he’d said. “It’s a huge commitment and not one to be taken lightly.” Dean found himself holding his breath and he picked at the label on his bottle, his jaw tensing against the tears suddenly blurring his vision. “I can find other ways to have children in my life,” Cas finally said. “But I don’t want to be without you.”

Now, hearing Cas tell him what a good job he’s doing with Henry feels almost bittersweet, like maybe he’s pointing out that he could’ve done just as well with their own kids. Maybe Dean’s less fucked up than he thought. Maybe Cas has seen that all along.

As if he can read his mind, Cas leans over to kiss him. “I love you.” He slides his reading glasses back down and Dean smiles. Cas raises an eyebrow. “I can practically hear you objectifying me.”

“Not my fault I married the hottest guy out there.”

Cas closes his book and sets it on the night table before turning to face Dean, “You want me to leave them on?”

Dean reaches for him. “Yes, sir, Mr. Librarian.”

***

When it’s time for Henry to leave for camp, they all go to the community center to see him off. There are dozens of kids, some tearing around in utter excitement, others hanging back shyly with their parents. Dean even sees one crying in the corner, his mother crouched down and speaking softly to him. There are some kids who clearly know each other already and Henry watches them with wide eyes, taking in the way they yell and run, darting through the clumps of families waiting in the gymnasium. Counselors in matching shirts walk through the crowd, double-checking that all the children have the name tags they were given when they checked in. Sam and Eileen look as relaxed as Dean has ever seen them and even Cas seems completely in his element, although maybe a little cranky at the excess of noise. It’s all well-organized, perfectly normal and reasonable, and Dean can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. He glances down at Henry again. He’s a little pale, but he’s got his game face on and it causes a stab of pain in Dean to realize that he even has a game face.

When the lead counselor blows a whistle, the entire room falls into something almost resembling quiet, everyone rife with anticipation as they wait for her go-ahead to line up for the bus. The chaos swells after that, the kids’ volume increasing with excitement as parents give last minute reminders and make sure they have all their luggage. Henry hugs them all in turn, his face solemn.

“We’ll see you in a week,” Eileen assures him. “Have a wonderful time.” She signs _I love you_ and pulls him in for one more hug. Sam bends down to kiss the top of his head one last time and Dean is heartened to see Henry’s everyday eye-roll appear as he pulls away.

“Dad, stop.”

Cas, learning from this, holds out a hand for a high five. “I expect a full report of all reptiles and amphibians you find.” He’s presented Henry with a brand new field guide and journal combo to be used to record any and all wildlife sightings.

“I promise.”

Dean feels like he should say something, but nothing comes, so he reaches down to ruffle his nephew’s hair. Henry looks up at him, his eyes big and trusting, like he’s waiting on words of wisdom. Dean tries, but when he opens his mouth nothing comes out. After a moment Henry picks up his duffel and backpack and gets in line with the other kids.

The bus pulls away from the building to a chorus of yelling and waving, and it’s at that moment Dean remembers what he needed to tell Henry. He starts to run down the driveway, then along the sidewalk doing his best to keep pace with the bus.

“Henry!” he calls. “Henry!” He glances back over his shoulder but the community center is deserted. No Sam and Eileen. No Cas. Still, Dean keeps running, his breath heaving in his chest as he calls for his nephew. No one on the bus seems to hear him and the bus continues to pick up steam, speeding along the road like it can’t get away from him fast enough. As he watches, a police car with lights and sirens blaring flies through an intersection and directly into the path of the bus.

There’s a sickening screech of brakes and an absolute explosion as they collide, the bus sliding out of control and rolling onto its side. Dean screams for help but the people walking calmly along the street act like they can’t hear him, and all he can do is keep running until he catches up to the now-smoking wreckage.

He’s been here before. He knows what to do, yanking and pulling at twisted metal until his sliced hands run red with blood. The bus looks empty but he knows Henry is in there and he doesn’t stop until he’s physically pulled away and forcibly thrown to the ground, two police officers pinning him down as he continues to scream.

He knows he’s about to wake up the second before it happens. Sure enough, Cas is there, leaning over him, his face tight with concern. “You’re okay.”

Dean nods, he knows it was a dream, but he can’t seem to open his mouth, terrified more screams will erupt. He lies there, trying to catch his breath until he hears a small voice.

“Uncle Dean?”

 _Jesus Christ_. Dean tries to sit up casually, like his heart isn’t trying to hammer its way past his ribs and out of his chest.

Henry stands in the doorway, looking small and fragile, his eyes bleary with sleep.

“Everything’s okay,” Cas says. “Uncle Dean just had a nightmare.”

Henry’s face screws up in confusion. “I thought you were calling me.”

Dean tries a laugh; it comes out as a breathy shudder. “I guess I was.”

“Why?”

Cas gets up, walking around the foot of the bed to approach Henry.

“I needed to tell you something,” Dean says, without thinking.

“What?”

Dean tries to concentrate. It had seemed so vitally important. “I can’t remember.” He shrugs, and puts a smile he doesn’t really feel on his face. “Dreams are silly that way.”

Henry watches him for a long moment, then nods. “Once I had a dream my bed was full of spiders. I made my dad get up and look.”

“And?” Cas prompts.

“No spiders.”

Cas drops a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll take you back to bed.”

“Sorry,” Dean calls after them. By the time Cas gets back, Dean’s changed out of his sweat-drenched t-shirt.

Cas gives him a searching look. “Same dream?”

“Oh, you’ll love this,” Dean says, trying for sardonic. “My brain’s putting together all my greatest hits.”

“Meaning?”

“Henry was on his way to camp and I needed to tell him something, but he was on the bus and when I finally caught up to him, his bus had crashed.”

Cas runs a hand through his hair. “Oh, God.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Back to me clawing through the wreckage.”

Cas sits on the edge of the bed and gathers Dean into his arms. Dean tries to slow his breathing to match Cas’s, taking in his familiar scent and the solid weight of his presence. ‘What were you trying to tell him?” Cas murmurs it into his hair.

As much as he dares, Dean replays the dream in his head. It was something important, but, even in his dream he doesn’t think he knew what it was. “I honestly don’t know.”

***

In the morning, Dean’s wary that Henry might be spooked, but he seems perfectly fine and the nightmare doesn’t even come up. He’s helping Dean make pancakes, stirring chocolate chips into the batter, when Sam arrives.

“Not yet, Dad,” he says before his father can even say hello. “I haven’t eaten yet.”

“I would never come between you and pancakes,” Sam says, snagging a piece of bacon from a plate.

Cas pours Sam some coffee while Henry flicks a drop of water on the griddle to see if it’s hot enough.

“You guys have fun?” Dean asks.

“We did.” Sam smiles, then mouths the words _open bar_. “Eileen is definitely appreciating the chance to sleep in.”

They sit around the table eating pancakes, Dean winking at Henry when he squirts a little extra whipped cream on his stack even after Sam gives him _the look_. Afterwards, when Henry goes off to wash the syrup from his hands and pack up his things, Dean says, “Kid tells me he’s going to camp this summer.”

Sam brightens. “Yeah, it looks like a great place. We gave him a couple of options and this is the one he chose.”

“A whole week, though? You and Eileen won’t know what to do with yourselves.”

Sam leans back in his chair. “Oh, I think we’ll manage.”

Cas sets down his mug. “Psychologists call that projecting, Dean.” Sam looks at him, confused. “Dean seems to think sending him to camp is highly irresponsible.”

“I didn’t say that,” Dean begins.

“You’re allowed to miss him. We all will. But it sounds like a terrific opportunity.”

Sam catches Dean’s eye. “You remember when we were kids? All our friends were always off doing cool things during the summer?”

Dean remembers. Camps, family vacations, trips to visit grandparents. It seemed like everyone was having big adventures while Dean and Sam stayed home, each day no different than the rest. Even though Dean had some friends in town, he was under strict orders to take care of Sam while John worked. And in the evenings John needed him around to help with his after hours repair jobs. “Yeah.”

“Eileen and I can give him these kinds of experiences that we never had. And you remember how much he loved the camp at the natural history museum last summer.”

Dean smiles. He still has a fossil rubbing Henry made for him on his bulletin board at work. “Yeah, but that was day camp.”

“He’s older now, nearly ten. He’s excited to go and we both think it’s important for him to stretch his wings a little.”

All of this makes perfect sense but Dean can’t seem to let it go. “You sure it’s safe? I mean you hear so many stories…”

Sam has his lawyer face on now. “What’s that supposed to mean, exactly?”

“I just mean, there’s always a risk, you know? Letting him be with adults you don’t know.”

“Jesus, Dean. I’m a lawyer. Eileen works with child advocacy, you think we’re naive about the ways of the world?”

“No, of course not, it’s just--” Dean stops when Henry comes out with his backpack.

“I appreciate the concern,” Sam says a little crisply. “Ready to go, son?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the chapter end note for content warnings.
> 
> Ah, yes, Valentine's Day during a pandemic. My husband and I were going to do takeout from a nice restaurant downtown but we've been slammed with a snowstorm and now we're under an ice storm warning so we'll be eating whatever we can scrounge together from the freezer. I'm not complaining though because we are safe and warm and healthy, and I hope you are as well! <3

“We have got to stop meeting like this.”

Focused on his phone, Dean hadn’t even noticed the police car pulling up to the curb. “Officer Mills,” he says cheerfully. “Look at you all in uniform. I feel like I should salute or something.”

Jody rolls her eyes. “Lift a hand to do that and I’ll have you face down on the hood of the car before you can finish.”

Dean winks at her. “You know I’m a married man,” he says before looking past her to her partner, Donna Hanscum. “Officer, I’d like to file a complaint.”

“So sorry, Dean,” she says, smiling brightly to put her dimples on full display. “I’m fresh out of paper.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” he says.

“It totally is,” Jody confirms. “So, what’s up? How’s Cas?”

“Everybody’s good,” Dean says, because what’s a couple of headaches and a few nightmares? “I’m heading over to the other location for a bit.”

“Working hard?”

“Or hardly working?” Donna chimes in.

Dean groans. “I’m reporting you both.”

“Oh, like you’ve never made a dad joke,” Jody says.

Dean holds his arms out to the side. “I look like a dad to you? Wait, don't answer that.”

“Well, if you’re going to report us right to the top, you better hurry up,” Donna says. “The chief announced he’s retiring in six months.”

Jody nods. “Retirement ceremony is gonna be a hell of a party.”

Dean thinks for a moment. “That guy’s been there forever.”

“Thirty-five years.”

“I remember my dad had some nice things to say about him.”

Jody nods, her eyes fond. “He’s a good guy and we’ll be sorry to see him go, but he’s got new twin grandbabies on the way. He and his wife are moving to be closer to them.”

Dean shoves away the thought of managing two newborns to focus on the real matter at hand. “Hey, I wonder how much worse grandpa jokes are than dad jokes.”

Donna ponders that. “Like, are they twice as corny?”

“Or exponentially worse?”

They consider in silence for a moment until the radio crackles to life. “Duty calls,” Jody says. “See ya.”

***

A few days later, Dean and Cas are sitting at the table having breakfast. Dean slept well last night—blessedly free of nightmares for the past couple of days, and he feels loose and well-rested. It’s a Thursday and they’ve got a handful of open houses to visit over the weekend. Cas seems to have let that last house go, and they’re both back to feeling confident about the next round of options.

Dean glances at the television, local news covering the story of the police chief’s retirement. “Oh yeah,” he tells Cas. “I saw Jody and Donna the other day. Apparently the chief’s moving to be close to his new twin grandbabies.”

“Jesus. I know people have multiples all the time, but I can’t even imagine.” Cas eyes Dean’s mug, then gets up to refill both their cups.

“I know, right? Henry was so tiny and still so much--”

_The top contenders for the position include current assistant chief of police Frank Devereaux and thirty-two year veteran of the department Joseph Alastair._

Dean whips his head up to look at the tv screen. Before he even realizes it, he’s moving, his chair toppling to the floor as he does. He’s lost, blinded by flashes he can’t focus on long enough to interpret.

He doesn’t register Cas coming back into the room, doesn’t understand that he’s crouched in the corner of the room, his back to the wall, curled up with his knees to his chest. All he knows is that he isn’t safe.

“Dean!” Vaguely Dean hears Cas setting down the mugs, but it sounds like it’s from miles away. He presses his hands to his face but he can’t seem to stop the flashes. The click of a door latching. A single, bright light. “Dean, what is it?”

His breathing is coming in ragged gasps, a hoarse sound accompanying each one. His throat feels raw and constricted, like he’s trying to scream in a nightmare but nothing will come out.

Cas is crouched down next to him now and he sets a hand gently on his arm. “Dean?”

Cas is good. Cas won’t let him be hurt. Eyes still squeezed shut, he flails an arm in his direction. “Cas?”

“I’m here, Dean.” He laces their fingers together and Dean squeezes. Hard. “What happened?”

“I can’t breathe,” Dean gasps. His lungs have tightened and every breath adds to the pain in his chest.

“I…” Cas falters, clearly at a loss. “I’m gonna call 911.”

“No!” The ferocity in his own voice frightens him, and he tries to pull away from Cas’s hand, but Cas won’t let go. Slowly, Dean lifts his head. “I’m okay.”

As whatever the fuck just happened begins to ebb, he comes back to himself. The blind terror fades, and he orients himself again. Townhouse, breakfast, Cas. He expects Cas to roll his eyes in response to Dean’s pronouncement of being fine, but all he sees is Cas’s pale, drawn face, blue eyes wide with concern.

“You’re clearly not.”

Dean lets his head fall back against the wall with a soft thud. “I don’t know what happened. I was sitting at the table just fine and I looked at the tv and… ” he shudders. “It was like my body took over.”

“What did you see?”

Dean shakes his head, confused. “They were talking about the police chief. I saw somebody who used to work with my dad.”

“That doesn’t make sense, Dean. You’re crying.” Cas reaches out, watching him carefully like he might spook. He uses his thumb to wipe tears from Dean’s cheek. “I really think you need to get checked out.”

“I’m okay,” Dean insists. He feels a little shaky, but things are settling again, like he’s locked everything back into place. “I’ve got that appointment next week.”

“I know, but we could go right now.” He gestures to the overturned chair, then back to Dean still on the floor. “This feels like an emergency.”

Dean pushes himself to his feet. “I’m fine. What are they going to tell me? Don’t watch the news?”

Cas stands too. “You said you couldn’t breathe.”

Dean’s chest still feels tight but he’s not going to give Cas the satisfaction of rubbing it. His throat feels raw too and his nose is running. “I don’t know what happened.” It’s got to be the brain tumor but fuck if he’s not going to enjoy these last couple of days before it’s diagnosed. “But it’s better now.” He watches a series of emotions cross Cas’s face, and he knows Cas is thinking the exact same thing. Part of Dean wants to reach for Cas and cling to him, but he can’t guarantee he’ll be able to let go right now. “I’m gonna be late.”

“Dean--” Cas begins again.

“I’m fine.”

Cas runs a hand through his hair as Dean rights the chair. “Can you at least text me and let me know you got there?”

Dean turns away from him, one hand still on the chair back. “Yeah. Sure.”

When he walks to his car, it’s on still-shaky legs and it isn’t until he’s safely inside it that he realizes he forgot his coffee and his lunch. It hardly matters since his stomach is in knots as it is and the last thing he needs is more caffeine. He sits in the driveway for a long moment, letting the comfort of the car curl around him. The cop’s face flashes through his mind again, but Dean pushes it aside. When his father was alive, there were some shitty times and no doubt seeing someone from those days was enough to set him off a bit. He needs to get a fucking grip. John is dead and gone and the past is just that… the past.

Sucking in a deep breath, he starts up the engine to drive to work. He faithfully texts Cas when he arrives.

***

Despite Dean’s objections, Cas insists on taking the morning off to come with him to the doctor. As they sit in the waiting room, Dean has to admit he feels better having Cas by his side. Whatever happened that day last week hasn’t happened again, and they’ve both taken some comfort in that. He’s jerked awake a couple of times from nightmares he can’t remember, but Cas slept through them so it was nothing Dean felt worth mentioning.

Cas gives his knee a little squeeze when the nurse calls his name, and Dean blows out a long breath as he follows her back.

Linda Tran is half Dean’s size and twice as scary. She was Cas’s doctor first and took Dean on as a patient when they got married as part of the whole _Dean Winchester is a Responsible Adult_ movement. For the most part, he’s only here for annual check-ups, but he likes her straightforward, no-nonsense way.

She looks genuinely happy to see him, ushering him to sit in the exam room while she opens up her computer terminal to pull up his chart. “How’s Castiel?”

“Never better,” Dean says. “We’re looking to buy a house.”

“That’s great! Where are you thinking?”

They discuss real estate and neighborhoods for a bit, and Dean asks after her son Kevin, who, she reports with no small amount of pride, has recently graduated with a master’s degree in cello performance.

“Okay, so,” she says, switching into professional mode, “You’re having some headaches? And flashes in your vision?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says. “The headaches aren’t awful but they do come on kind of suddenly.”

“And the flashes? Are they associated with the headaches?”

Dean thinks. “Sometimes I’ll get them first, sometimes after, but yes generally around the same time.”

“And are they in one eye? Or both?”

“Both.”

She nods and taps at her keyboard. “And this has been going on for how long?”

“Almost a month, I guess.” She’s well-acquainted with Dean’s shitty relationship with the dentist and he tells her about his visit, and vomiting afterwards. “I thought maybe I fu--messed up my jaw there and that was causing it, but I’m still getting them.”

“Jaw pain can manifest in a lot of ways,” she agrees. “Anything else before we get started with the exam?”

“Uh,” Dean rubs at the back of his neck. “The other day I had sort of an episode, I guess?”

She gives him a sharp look. “Can you tell me what you mean by that?”

He looks somewhere above her shoulder. “I was just having breakfast and watching the news and like, the next thing I knew I was in the corner of the room sort of freaking out.” The words are hard to say because it sounds so stupid but he knows Dr. Tran well enough to know she would never make fun of him.

“What does freaking out mean here?”

“I… felt like I couldn’t breathe, and I was… ” he clears his throat. “Crying? It was like my body just took over and had a mind of its own.”

She cracks a small smile. “Well, it does have a mind of its own. That’s called your brain.”

He glances down at the floor. “Yeah.”

“Did you have chest pain? Any pain down your left arm?”

Dean thinks, knuckles rubbing against his chest unconsciously. “No, just like a tightness.”

“Dean, I know it’s like pulling teeth to get you in here--" She stops and gives him a wry smile. "Okay, in retrospect I could’ve used a better example, but the fact that you’re sitting here in my office today tells me exactly how concerned you are.”

Dean palms are beginning to sweat and he wipes them on his jeans. “I know I don’t always take the best care of myself.”

Her voice goes gentle. “I’ve found that often when patients come to me with a problem, they already have an idea of what they think they’re dealing with.” She waits for him to nod. “I don’t ask this because I think my patients are always right--there’s a reason I spent all that time going to med school, but so that I can do my best to reassure them. What is it you think I’m going to find?”

When she says it like that, there’s no way Dean can’t answer honestly. “I know I’m not a doctor but… a brain tumor.”

Dr. Tran smiles and Dean finds himself caught between outrage and amusement. “They almost always say that. I mean, sometimes MS, but generally a brain tumor.” Her expression sharpens. “Not to say that those aren’t very serious conditions, but they are exceedingly rare. Now, I’ll do an exam today and we’ll certainly work you up if I find anything the least bit concerning, but as of now, nothing you’ve said has me thinking along those lines.”

“Okay, but,” Dean begins. “The eye stuff? The headaches? The… losing control of my body?”

“Did you lose bladder or bowel control?”

 _What the fuck._ “No.”

“Go on.”

“I mean, they all have one thing in common. My brain.”

“That’s true, but not necessarily in the way you think. Have you ever had experience with anxiety or panic attacks before?”

Dean doesn’t even have to think. “No, never.”

“You’re one of the lucky few, then. A lot of people have them and they can be really frightening. Like you described, it can feel like you can’t breathe. Some people are entirely convinced they’re having a heart attack and sometimes it does take an EKG to rule that out.”

Dean nods, letting the tiniest bit of relief wash over him. “I guess I can see that.”

“But there are things you can do to deal with them. Techniques and tools to use. I can give you some resources for those.”

“Okay, but why now? Why at the ripe old age of forty would I start getting them?”

“People like to think doctors know the exact causal relationships between things. Like medicine is an if/then issue. If you have this symptom then it means this. If we treat this, then that will happen.” She shrugs. “The truth of the matter is we really don’t know, but we _do_ know something like this can come on at any time for a variety of reasons.”

Dean can’t help it, he laughs. “That’s not exactly reassuring. _Especially_ after you just got done telling me how you know so much because you went to med school.”

Dr. Tran smiles back. “Don’t tell anyone my secret.” Then she gets serious again. “You mentioned buying a house. That’s a pretty major life change.”

“I mean, yeah, but it’s something we’ve wanted to do for a long time. It’s taken a lot of time and saving to even get to the point of seriously looking at houses.”

“Even positive life experiences, like getting married or starting a great new job, can be serious stressors. Sometimes it’s merely the act of things changing that can do it.”

He stops, his brow furrowing. “You know, one of the first times I felt kind of… off was right after we went to see a house.” He remembers the unsettled feeling of walking back across the yard, how he just knew the house was wrong even though he couldn’t articulate why. “Do you think that’s it?”

“It could be. It’s something to keep an eye on for sure.” She turns back to her computer. “I’m going to add those resources I mentioned to your after visit note. Check them out… I’d suggest going through some of them when you’re feeling calm and relaxed just to get the hang of them.”

“Okay.”

“And, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“If they don’t help or things get worse, you let me know. There are more things we can try.” She looks at him clear-eyed. “Like therapy or anxiety meds.”

Dean immediately feels himself start to pull back. “Look, this happened exactly one time and now that I know what it is, I don’t think It’ll come to that.”

“It does help to know what’s going on, that's for sure. All I’m saying is I know you well enough to know that you’d let yourself suffer for no good reason before you’d ask for help.”

Putting a palm to his chest, Dean winces. “Ouch. Is this how you stay in business? Wound your patients so they have to keep coming back?”

Smiling, she gets to her feet, ready to proceed with the exam. “Only the ones I like.”

***

Cas looks up from the book he’s brought along as soon as Dean returns to the waiting area. He stands patiently while Dean checks out and gets the paperwork from the receptionist.

“What’d she say?”

Dean glances around at the other people sitting in the waiting room and gives a little shake of his head in a _not here_ motion, quickly reaching for Cas’s wrist when he goes pale. “No, it’s fine. I’m fine. C’mon.”

He waits until they’ve gotten back into the Impala. Cas sits and waits for him to speak but he can see the tension coiled all through his husband’s body. “I’m fine, I swear.” He unfolds the papers the nurse has given him. “She thinks I had a panic attack.”

“Oh.” Cas visibly relaxes before his eyes. “Okay, that makes sense.”

“Yeah, she said people sometimes think they’re heart attacks.”

“You said you felt like you couldn’t breathe.”

Nodding, Dean passes the papers over to Cas. “She gave me some exercises to try if it happens again. Actually, she said I should practice these when I’m feeling fine.”

Face serious, Cas scans through them, and Dean can’t help the tiny smile that crosses his face. He has no doubt that Cas will learn everything Dr. Tran suggested, probably even trying them out himself. “This is good,” he says, still reading. “We can do this.” He looks up. “Did she say why it started?”

Dean taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “I—she said even life changes that are good can bring some stress?”

“The house?”

“I guess, but I swear I don’t feel stressed about that? I mean, it’s new and it’s a big deal, but it’s what I want.” It’s true. They’re not running headlong into this new commitment. They’ve researched and saved and been smart about it. They’ve made list after list after list and all of them have made clear that buying a house is going to give them so many pluses and so few minuses. He laughs, but it sounds a little hollow. “I guess I’m just old and my brain doesn’t do change that well.”

Cas puts his hand on Dean’s cheek and Dean lets his eyes drift shut, feeling the warmth of Cas’s fingertips against his skin. “You’re perfect and I love you.”

Dean turns his face to kiss Cas’s palm. “I love you, too.” He starts up the car. “Do you have time for coffee before you have to be at work?”

“Absolutely. And, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want to go out on a limb here, but it almost seems like going to the doctor can help you feel better?”

Shaking his head, Dean says, “Not you, too?”

Cas laughs outright when Dean tells him what Dr. Tran said. “She’s got your number.”

“This is the problem with letting people get to know you,” Dean grumbles.

***

Dean continues with his life. He goes to work and he and Cas study real estate listings and they spend time with Henry. With Cas, Dean reads through the exercises Dr. Tran gave him and they try them out. Dean practices slowing his breathing, silently counting for each inhale, hold, and exhale. He feels stupid but he does it. One exercise suggests he picture a place where he feels safe and happy and he elbows Cas, pointing to that as he mimes giving a blowjob.

Cas raises an eyebrow. “You’re telling me you want to suck my dick to calm down during a panic attack.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Cas. I'll be the one stressed out so clearly _you_ need to be the one doing it.” It feels good to be able to joke about this now, a far cry from the tense admissions when he thought it was a brain tumor. In fact, ever since the doctor’s appointment, the flashes and headaches have gone away.

His voice resigned, Cas acquiesces. “If that’s the sacrifice I must make.”

“I knew there was a reason I married you.”

The only thing that doesn’t ease up is the nightmares. Every few nights he has them, oftentimes not even remembering the content, just jerking awake, heart pounding, bathed in cold sweat. He’s having them so frequently now that he doesn’t even bother waking Cas. There’s no point in both of them having a shitty night’s sleep. Sometimes he’ll get up and get a cold drink of water. Sometimes he lies there and practices his breathing. It helps a little, but not always enough to let him fall back asleep so, more and more mornings he’s up early, already a cup or two of coffee in by the time Cas comes out of the bedroom. He doesn’t want Cas to worry, so he tells him it’s just the days getting longer and the sun waking him up. Sometimes he alludes to some lower back pain—which isn’t completely a lie—and how lying flat for too long actually exacerbates it.

He finds that he enjoys the quiet solitude of the early mornings and he rolls his eyes at himself because he really is turning into an old man. Growing up, he was always desperate to sleep in, but there were few chances for that. Sam needed to be up in time for school, needed to have breakfast and have his lunch packed and his homework in order. He didn’t mind, not really. His Dad worked so hard and it was nice to be able to help the household run smoothly.

Now, when he has nobody but himself to manage he finds himself on a day like this sitting at the table as the morning light filters through the windows. It’s peaceful. Not as good as being in bed, but sure as fuck better than lying there like he was a few hours ago with his pulse pounding, trying not to wake his husband with his gasping breaths. Sighing, he pours himself some more coffee. If nothing else, he hopes the early start will leave him tired enough to sleep through the night. 

That night, his brain fuzzy with exhaustion, he turns off his light early. He gives Cas one last good night kiss and rolls onto his side, facing away. Almost automatically, Cas shifts and reaches out a hand to lazily rub up and down Dean’s back as he lies there becoming one with the mattress. Dean feels himself relax, feels the exhaustion of the previous night and the long sleep-deprived day making his limbs loose and heavy. His eyelids flutter shut and he loses himself in the things he knows are true: Cas lying beside him, the warmth of his strong hand on Dean’s skin. He even practices his breathing a little bit, but as quietly as he can because for whatever reason he doesn’t want Cas making a big deal about it.

He drifts off to sleep.

He wakes because the light is shining in his eyes, harsh and unrelenting. He tries to shut his eyes against it but they won’t, no matter how he tries. Nothing moves, he can’t toss an arm over his eyes, he can’t scramble up from where he lies, he’s pinned there invisibly, unable to do anything but stare at the light even as the brightness causes tears to stream from his eyes. He feels them trail across his face, some pooling in his ears, but there’s nothing he can do, no way to dry them, no way to stop them. He feels like he isn’t even breathing, his chest completely constricted. He knows better than to try and scream.

Finally, he jerks awake, like a spell has been broken. It’s familiar now, the cold sweat between his shoulder blades, the squeezing in his throat, the rasp of his breath in his ears. The room is dark. Cas shifts in his sleep and Dean comes back to himself enough to check the time. 2:17 am.

He wants to scream with frustration. If experience has taught him anything it’s that he won’t be falling back asleep after this. Usually the nightmares don’t wake him until somewhere between 4:30 and 5:00, so to not even have gotten those few, precious hours of sleep makes all of this worse. He gets out of bed as quietly as he can and decides it’s time for something new.

Hoping Cas is used to hearing him rattle around in the kitchen at night, this time he bypasses the refrigerator and goes to the liquor cabinet. He pours himself a drink and chokes it down, struggling not to cough. But the burn in his throat is good, something tangible he can focus on when the rest of his brain and body feel out of his control. He feels better already even though he knows it’s too soon for the alcohol to be hitting his bloodstream. For good measure he pours some more, swallowing that down as well. As the sweat on his skin dries, he replaces the bottle, taking care to wash every trace of whiskey out of the glass before putting it in the dishwasher. His stomach burns now too but it’s nothing he can’t handle and he spends a long time brushing his teeth before climbing back into bed.

At last he sleeps.

He sleeps so long that Cas has to wake him in the morning. “Hey, sleepyhead. You slept through your alarm.”

Confused, Dean pushes up on one elbow, rubbing at his eyes. “I didn’t set it. I’ve been waking so early I didn’t think I needed to.” He doesn’t exactly feel rested, but still, it was better than lying awake.

Looking pleased, Cas kisses his forehead. “I’m glad you got a good night’s sleep in.”

Dean forces a smile. “Yeah. Me, too.” Cas’s blue eyes are softly shining at him and while there’s no way he’s going to burst that bubble, he finds himself almost squirming under his gaze. “I better get moving.” He hurries out of bed and into the shower.

With the hot water streaming over him, he takes stock. He knows it wasn’t ideal, but he feels almost human this morning. No harm, no foul, right? If he’d had a sleeping pill he would’ve taken it so what’s the difference if he has a little whiskey to serve the same purpose? Maybe he should call in to Dr. Tran’s office for some sleeping pills. She’d said there was more that could be done, like meds. He thinks about trying to do that without Cas finding out. He doesn’t like hiding things from his husband but he hasn’t had any more panic attacks and these are just bad dreams. Maybe he’s getting himself into a pattern where the worry about having nightmares is causing him to sleep badly which is in turn causing the nightmares. Probably the whole thing is a vicious cycle he’s gotten himself into which is why shaking things up last night helped. It makes him feel better, like he’s taken some control over the situation.

If he’s worried that Cas noticed anything was different, he needn’t have been concerned. Their morning is fine, coffee, breakfast, the news on as usual. Dean had been nervous after that first panic attack, worried that sitting there with the television on might somehow set him off again, but he’s been fine and each day he makes it through breakfast unscathed feels like a victory. He knows Cas senses it too, because he’d checked with Dean for almost a week afterwards about whether he’d wanted to watch something different, or even not have the television on at all, but Dean had pointedly stated that he was fine, and each unremarkable breakfast since then had been a testament to that.

Dean counts this morning as a win and heads off to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for a panic attack
> 
> It's always weird to create a first or last name for a canon character who doesn't have one, but I chose Joseph here for Alastair because that was the first name of the monstrosity of a human in The Keepers. I don't know what you call it when it's the opposite of a tribute, but it's a connection that I made on purpose.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See the end note for content warnings.
> 
> Here's hoping you are all safe and warm if you're dealing with the ice storms sweeping the country! We dealt with one over the weekend here in Oregon and were one of the fortunate few not to lose power throughout it. I've got friends on Day 5 of no power, and the only saving grace is that it's warmed up considerably here. I've got family in Texas and things there seem really rough.

“That sound alright to you, Dean?”

Dean tries to refocus. “Hit me with that last part again, Charlie? Sorry for spacing.” Charlie patiently repeats the plan and Dean nods his assent to the scheduling changes. “Yeah, that’ll work. Thanks.”

“Cool.” She turns to leave, then stops and faces him again. “You okay, boss?”

He smiles tightly. “Not sleeping well.” He’s not sure why he says it, but he adds, “Nightmares.”

Charlie looks thoughtful. “Now, what could scare Dean Winchester?” She snaps her fingers then points at him. “Got it. Electric cars!”

He laughs despite himself. “That _would_ be terrifying.” He’s not hungover, not even close, but he’s still a bit rattled from the dream that had him visiting the liquor cabinet in the middle of the night. Maybe he should’ve told Cas about it after all. “I had this dream where, like, I couldn’t move.” Even providing Charlie with the vaguest of descriptions is enough to have his heart rate kicking up.

“Hmm,” Charlie says. “You ever heard of sleep paralysis?”

“Nope. What’s that?”

“I mean, it’s what it sounds like. You get paralyzed in your sleep. Some people think the whackos who say they’ve been abducted by aliens were actually having sleep paralysis.”

“Huh.” Dean thinks of the way he felt frozen, unable to escape the light. “What causes it?”

“Did you ever have a dog?”

Scoffing, Dean goes with an understatement. “My dad wasn’t exactly the pet type.”

Charlie raises her eyebrows. “You’re an adult and you could get one now, you know. I bet Cas would love to dress one up for the holidays. They make the cutest little costumes and outfits…” Her eyes go dreamy.

“Bradbury, focus,” Dean says, even though she’s totally right. He stops himself from imagining Cas and the dog in matching sweaters.

“Sorry. Okay, well have you ever _seen_ a dog?” Dean doesn’t even dignify that with a response. “You know how sometimes they move their paws in their sleep and do those tiny sleep barks?”

“Sure.”

“When people get deep into REM sleep and have dreams, our bodies want to do that same sort of thing, so our brains paralyze us so we don’t like, flail out of bed or punch our partners or whatever. It’s a way to protect us.”

Dean’s liking the sound of this. “Okay.”

“But sometimes your brain and body can get out of whack and you’ll be awake but unable to move. It can seem like it lasts for hours but it’s usually just a few seconds.”

“That does kind of sound like what happened to me.”

“Well, no wonder you look like shit. I had it happen once and it was literally the most terrifying thing. I’ve never forgotten it.”

“What do you do about it?”

“Uh,” she pushes her hair behind her ear. “That I don’t know. Like I said it only ever happened to me once.”

Dean turns toward his computer. “I’ll google. But thanks.”

She makes a sweeping bow before leaving.

Alone in his office, Dean searches, clicking on one site after another. Some of the descriptions seem pretty apt. The feeling of pressure on his chest, the sense of a foreboding presence in the room with him. He doesn’t remember having this particular dream before, but when he woke, it somehow felt familiar. Maybe those recent, unrecalled dreams he’s been jerking awake from were all the same thing. He finds that prospect a little concerning because from what he’s reading, most people only have an incident or two in their entire lives. Plus, most people describe it as being awake in their bed but unable to move, not in some strange other location like Dean experienced. But it turns out there can be a hallucination aspect to it which is pretty fucking freaky. Despite all of that unsettling information, Dean feels better, like he’s solved a riddle.

Stress can be a cause, he learns, which fine, having a panic attack already proved that he's not at his most relaxed. Apparently there isn’t really much to be done for it other than engaging in what they call ‘good sleep hygiene’. He rolls his eyes at his computer screen. Hard to have good sleep hygiene when sleep paralysis has you terrified to go to bed at a reasonable hour. Still, it’s something.

Armed with this new knowledge, his day is a lot more tolerable than he expected. It boggles his mind that he could reach this point in his life only to have his brain and body suddenly come up with new ways to fuck with him. He’s always sort of prided himself with being able to roll with the punches… losing his mom so early and having to take care of Sam seemed to imprint a certain amount of natural coping ability onto him early. Maybe his life is just too quiet now and that’s why his brain is acting up. Maybe he’s too happy and too content. Maybe he needs a little something to toss some chaos into it.

Maybe a dog isn’t the worst idea he’s ever heard.

***

He brings it up a few days later on the way to look at the next house Melanie has arranged for them to see. As Cas predicted, to get all the things they want they’ve had to cast a wider net in terms of location. This house is a little further out than their original searches, but they’ve agreed that going to look at it will help them decide which aspects to prioritize going forward. It’s only fifteen minutes from their current place but in the opposite direction from Sam and Eileen.

“Hey, what would you think about getting a dog?” he asks Cas when they’ve finished catching up on their days.

Cas turns toward him, pushing his sunglasses up so he can really peer at Dean. “Who are you and what have you done with my husband?”

“I know, I know. I was just talking to Charlie the other day and well, you know how she gets.”

“I do, indeed.”

“I mean, if Eileen won’t go for it and we end up with enough yard, maybe it could work out. For Henry, I mean.”

“For Henry.”

“Yes.”

Cas lays a hand on Dean’s knee. “You never cease to amaze me.”

“Listen. I’m just asking what you think. It’s not like I’ve been searching the humane society listings or anything.” Dean did exactly that after he closed out all those tabs he had open to read about sleep paralysis. “Just thought it might be a fun way to shake things up.”

Cas grins. “Because moving won’t be enough.”

“Forget I said a thing.”

“Nope, it’s out there now.” Cas glances down at his phone. “Okay, make a right at the stop sign.”

When they pull up to the house, Dean is intrigued. The lot is even bigger than it looked on the website, the house positioned back from the street for added privacy. Melanie is already there, her car parked in the driveway. As always she greets them with a broad smile. “Nice setting, huh?”

Cas nods. “The trees are beautiful.”

“Don’t expect me to rake all those leaves,” Dean says, because somehow this is the schtick they’ve developed. Cas earnest and eager and Dean playing the role of grumpy old man. It’s almost their version of good cop/bad cop, he thinks.

She’s used to it by now, and merely smiles as she begins to tour them around. This house is older than the ones they’ve been looking at and when Dean asks when it was built, he finds that it’s nearly the same age as the one he grew up in. Something about that makes him feel comfortable, like the house has weathered the same years he has. It needs some work, but so far he doesn’t see anything the two of them can’t handle, at least not without Bobby pitching in. They’re both all smiles as they finish the tour of the inside.

“Okay, Dean, let’s see if this shop works better for you.” She opens the back door that leads from the kitchen. The outbuilding looks nearly identical to the one at the house where Dean grew up, its positioning with regard to the house is even similar. He studies the building across the yard as they all start to walk towards it and suddenly his feet won’t move.

He’s frozen, his feet anchored to the ground, his hands clenched into fists as the terror moves through him. “No,” he says softly, barely a whisper. Cas and Melanie continue walking and a few seconds stretch like seasons before Cas turns back to see why he isn’t following.

“Dean?”

Dean shuffles backwards until the kitchen door is comfortingly against his back. ”I can’t.” He can’t say what he means. He doesn’t even know what he means. He only knows that he can’t. He can’t move. He can’t go there. They can’t make him.

Melanie turns back as well and even through the crushing panic, he sees her eyes go wide in alarm. She turns to Cas. “Shall I…?”

“Could you wait for us inside, please?”

“Of course. Take all the time you need.”

But Dean can’t seem to move away from the door to let her pass and eventually she disappears from his sight. Dean doesn’t know where she goes and he doesn’t care. He’s got an unobstructed view of the workshop now and he can’t breathe.

“Dean.” He hears his name from somewhere beside him. “Dean, can you look at me?”

Dean wants to explain why he’s frozen here, clutching at the door frame behind him. He’s not sure what he says, but it’s enough to have Cas stepping back into his field of vision. When he does, Dean flails out an arm without even consciously moving. “No.”

“That’s fine, Dean. You don’t have to. We can stay right here if you want. We can go home.”

“I can’t.”

“Dean, look at me. Can you try, please?”

Dean manages to drag his gaze to Cas’s face for a moment. What is Cas even doing here? He shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe.

“That’s good, Dean. Try and look at me again, okay? I think you’re having another panic attack.”

Cas’s voice is good. It’s deep and warm and even though Dean isn’t completely sure what he’s saying, he likes hearing it.

“Do you remember when you went to see Dr. Tran? And you talked about this with her? And she gave us some ways to deal with it when it happens?”

Dean looks at Cas again, longer this time. He looks so concerned, his blue eyes full of worry.

“Okay, let’s breathe together. Do it just like me, breathe in for four counts.” As Dean watches, Cas pulls in a long, deep breath and holds it before exhaling slowly. “C’mon, Dean, do it with me. Breathe in, okay?”

Dean nods and tries to breathe in, really he does, but he only gets to two before he’s gasping again, his mouth open. “I can’t.”

But Cas has his hand on Dean’s shoulder now and it feels like the only thing anchoring him to this plane of existence. “No, that was perfect. Really good. Let’s try again.”

This time Dean gets to three, and the next time to four and then he’s able to hold it and release it slowly and somehow he’s back to standing outside the house that’s for sale. Now he can see all the ways that it’s different, how the yard is wider, how the workshop’s windows are in the wrong place. He’s with Cas whose jaw is clenched tight and he’s made a fucking fool of himself in front of the realtor.

He puts his hands to his face. “Jesus Christ, I’m sorry.”

Cas hesitantly places his hands on Dean’s, tugging lightly until Dean looks at him. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I don’t know what’s going on with me. I don’t know why I freaked out.”

“You said you couldn’t go in there. What did you mean by that?”

“I said that?”

Cas nods. “You said”—and his voice breaks the tiniest bit—“You said _don’t make me_.”

“I don’t know why I said that,” Dean insists.

“Dean, where did you think you were?”

There’s a long silence while Dean tries to put it into words. “This place… it reminds me of the house I grew up in. I remember thinking it was set up just like that one.” It’s so close, like a word on the tip of his tongue, like something a tiny bit too far down the highway to make out clearly. The answer is _right there_.

“Did something happen there?”

“What? No. I mean my dad wasn’t great but we both know that.” Dean rubs at his temple at the same time Cas gingerly touches his own face. That’s when Dean notices and whatever he’s been working towards in his brain snaps shut again with a sting as sharp as a rubber band.

“Cas, what happened to your face?” There’s a red mark along the edge of his jaw.

“It’s fine. It’s my own fault for trying to touch you when you were in the midst of that.”

Dean’s stomach twists and he feels his blood run cold. “I did that to you?”

“You didn’t mean to. You had no idea what you were doing, I don’t even think you knew it was me.”

“Oh God, I’m so sorry.” Dean’s voice is hoarse but he’s finally able to step away from the safety of the door and reach gentle fingers to Cas’s face. “I am so sorry,” he says again. He leans in to kiss the red mark, then Cas’s lips. He realizes with a jolt that he’s relieved Cas lets him.

“I’m okay,” Cas says with conviction. “Are you?”

Dean blows out a long breath. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“I take it this isn’t the house for us.”

“I—I can finish looking at it now. It’s fine.”

Cas sucks in a deep breath of his own. “Maybe you can, but I can’t. Let’s go tell Melanie we’re through here.”

The drive home is silent, the weight of what happened suspended between them. Dean’s head hurts, his muscles ache from where he unconsciously clenched them. He’s even torn part of his fingernail scrabbling against the door frame. But none of that compares to the heaviness in his heart over hurting Cas. Back in their townhouse, Dean immediately goes to the freezer, wrapping a bag of frozen peas in a dishtowel.

“You’re going to have a bruise,” Dean says, holding out the makeshift ice pack with his gaze cast downward, waiting for Cas to take it so that he can escape to the bathroom for a few moments alone. He’s sure Cas doesn’t want him around right now, not when he keeps ruining things.

“I told you it was an accident,” Cas says, even though Dean hasn’t said anything else.

“Still,” Dean says with a huff. “My fist, your face. Those are the facts.”

“Fine,” Cas says, with an edge to his voice that makes Dean almost wince. “If you think this is your fault, come fix it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean come sit on the couch with me and hold the ice pack.” Meeting Cas’s eyes, he sees a glimmer of amusement there and his heart rate begins to slow a bit. Cas has him figured out—has for ages--and there’s no way Dean can refuse his offer without looking like an asshole. Well, more of one, anyhow.

They sit side by side on the couch, knees bumping as Dean takes Cas gently by the chin and tilts his face toward the light to see the extent of the injury. Sighing, he holds the ice pack against his jaw. “You wanna hit me to make things even?”

“I most certainly do not.”

“Well, you owe me one.”

“Dean.” Dean doesn’t answer, pretending to focus on adjusting the ice. “Dean, what’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Dean knows that’s a cop out of an answer, but he doesn’t know how to say that it’s the best he can manage. He owes Cas more than that, so he tries to explain. “I… I haven’t been sleeping well. I was telling Charlie and she thought maybe I was having sleep paralysis—“

“You talked to Charlie about this?”

“A little,” Dean says, and from the way Cas is looking at him it feels like the wrong answer.

“I can’t tell if this house thing has sent you into a… a spiral or something? Or if it’s something more.” Cas takes in a deep breath, and Dean hears it shudder at the end. “Are you unhappy?” He swallows thickly. “With me?”

Dean nearly drops the ice pack. “What? How could you think that?”

“I don’t? Not really? But something is happening here and I feel like I don’t know how to help you.”

Shaking his head a little, Dean says, “I don’t know what’s going on, but I can promise you with one hundred percent certainty that it’s not you. If anything I figure you’re getting sick of having to deal with me and my bullshit.”

Cas reaches for the ice, putting it down on the coffee table so he can take Dean’s hands. “Whatever’s going on, it isn’t bullshit. There’s always been a reason in the past when your nightmares would start up again. We just need to figure it out.”

“This is more than just nightmares, though,” Dean says miserably. “Those I could handle on my own.”

The tiniest of smiles crosses Cas’s face. “I seem to remember being at least a little bit involved.” And he was, holding Dean, running fingers through his hair, simply listening as Dean haltingly told him of the terrifying images, even as his throat was raw from waking up screaming. “It’s not a weakness to need help.”

Dean pulls one hand free to scrub across his face. “Of course it is. I mean, I know what you’re saying, but that’s literally the definition of being weak.”

“Okay, so the next time you have a panic attack or a nightmare, I should, what? Go get coffee and wait for you to be done?” There’s a pleading tone to Cas’s voice, and an edge of frustration.

“How can I be getting worse? After all these years, why now?”

“I don’t know. Brains are…”

“The fucking worst,” Dean supplies.

Cas smiles. “I was going to say complex and mysterious.”

Dean sighs. “I’ll keep working on my breathing and shit. The stuff Dr. Tran gave me. It really did help bring me out of it.”

Cas opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, then stops again. “I’m glad I was there.”

“Thank you,” Dean says, pulling him into a hug. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Cas squeezes him tightly. “I want you to be okay.”

***

As promised, Dean practices his breathing exercises. He reads up on panic attacks and even installs one of those meditation apps on his phone, warmed by the enthusiastic approval Cas gives it when Dean shows it to him. And for the better part of a week it helps. He’s sleeping better, less pulled tight with dread all the time. He likes being able to give Cas an honest report each morning when he asks how Dean slept. Maybe it’s just the stress of the house buying after all, even though it’s the stupidest fucking reason Dean can think of to cause actual goddamn panic attacks. And while he’ll deny it to his dying day, talking about it to Cas helps.

That weekend they meet Sam, Eileen, and Henry for dinner at a restaurant in their neighborhood. It’s Henry’s favorite, mostly due to the ice cream sundaes that come with every kid’s meal.

“Tell them the big news, Cas,” Dean says, after they’ve ordered. Sam and Eileen are sitting together on one side of the table, while Henry has clamored to sit between his uncles on the other side.

Cas smiles at him and Dean reaches an arm across the back of Henry’s chair to rest a hand on Cas’s shoulder. “I got asked to present at our annual library conference this year.”

“That’s great!” Eileen says, her eyes shining.

“Way to go, that’s awesome,” Sam agrees. Watching them so enthusiastically happy for his husband never fails to do Dean’s heart good.

Henry looks up from where he’s playing a game on Dean’s phone. “What is? What’s awesome?”

“Your Uncle Cas is so smart and so good at his job that he gets to teach some other people about how to do it,” Eileen tells him.

“Oh,” he says, going back to his game.

Dean ruffles his hair. “This kid’s hard to impress.”

Cas laughs. “Maybe if they have ice cream at the conference.”

“So when is it? And where?” Sam asks. “That’s the conference you guys travel to each year, right?”

“It’s in August. Only this year we’re hosting it here in town, so no travel.”

Shaking his head like he’s disappointed, Dean says, “Yeah, I was hoping to be wined and dined someplace exotic, but instead we’re talking a whole three exits down the highway.”

“They’ll still pay for a night at the conference hotel,” Cas points out. “We could make it into a ‘staycation’.”

“Please never use that word again.” It’s so egregious that Dean doesn’t even give Cas shit for the air quotes he used. “But yeah, that could be fun.” A night downtown with his husband in a free hotel room sounds pretty damn good. The food at these things isn’t usually great, but with some strategic plate loading and a can-do attitude, Dean’s been known to make an entire meal out of an appetizer buffet. “Free drinks at the reception, right?” Sam glares at him a little even though Henry isn’t paying the least bit of attention. “Sodas, I meant, of course,” Dean adds. “Good old wholesome soda.”

The evening progresses easily as they eat and drink, Henry regaling them with stories about the bugs he’s caught and released this week. His stories meander and ramble and Dean wouldn’t have it any other way. The kid loves to talk and Sam and Eileen look more than happy to not be his sole audience for a change. He gets so into it that his parents have to coax him through eating his “growing food”.

“We grew up on cereal and spaghetti-os, Sammy. You really think one less apple slice is gonna be his undoing?”

“Yeah, apples are gross and I already ate two of them, Dad.”

“You know, Henry,” Sam begins in a voice that Dean knows is actually directed at him. “Time with Uncle Dean is kind of like eating dessert. A special treat that only happens occasionally.”

Henry narrows his eyes in thought. “Because it’s not good for me?”

Next to him, Dean rests his chin on his hand, giving his brother his most thoughtful pose. “Is that what you’re saying, Sam?”

“I’m _saying_ you’re both basically children.”

“I’ll buy that,” Dean says. Henry uses the opportunity to put his uneaten apple slice down to high five his uncle. “Just eat the dumb apple already. Next time you come over we’ll make an apple pie and watch your father’s head explode.” Dean affects a high pitched voice. “Is it dessert? Is it _growing food_?” He opens his fists alongside his head to mime the explosion.

“I don’t sound like that,” Sam says.

“I don’t sound like that,” Dean mocks. Henry laughs but he eats the apple and Dean feels a swell of accomplishment.

“Are you two through?” Eileen says with fond exasperation. “And please don’t make me specify which two of you I mean.”

“That’s fair.” Dean grins at his brother who returns it.

While Eileen gives Henry’s dinner input the seal of approval and flags down their server to bring his dessert, Sam changes the subject. “So, how’s the house hunt going?”

“Uh,” Dean begins, because they haven’t looked at any houses since the last, aborted attempt and honestly Dean’s not sure what to say about that. “It’s ongoing.”

“Cas said you guys looked at a house that was a lot like the one we lived in with Dad.”

Sam’s tone is casual. Too casual, actually, with a lightness to it that doesn’t need to be there if he were simply making an observation. Dean feels himself instantly going defensive. “Did he?”

“He just said you noticed some similarities.”

Dean glances over at Cas, but Henry is sitting between them and they’ve got their heads together discussing God knows what. The last fucking thing he needs is his husband and brother whispering like a couple of gossiping middle schoolers about him. “You got something you want to say to me, Sam?”

Sam leans in from across the table. “He’s worried about you, okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Eyes going soft, Sam says. “He cares about you. We all do.”

“Good to know,” Dean says shortly, then sighs. “Look, I’ve talked to my doctor. I’ve got some breathing exercises and shit that I’m working on. This just happens sometimes and it’ll pass again like it always does.”

Sam nods. “Good. I’m glad. But there’s nothing wrong with talking to a professional if you need to. You know Eileen and I both went after Henry was born. It was hard, but it helped.”

Dean remembers it well because he and Cas babysat so that they could go to a support group for preemie parents. It started when Henry was still in the NICU, tubes and monitors on what felt like every inch of him, and they continued to go after he was discharged, keeping in touch with other parents, even returning for the annual reunion picnic at the hospital for years afterwards.

“I appreciate it,” Dean says, but mostly to shut him up. What’s he going to do? Go see a therapist and talk about how adult responsibility is the bogeyman hiding under his bed? Sit in a circle and commiserate with other potential homeowners over fluctuating interest rates and mortgage points? He wonders if they give out coffee and donuts at those meetings. Probably just calculators.

Thankfully, the conversation moves on to other topics and Dean does his best not to let that interaction color the entire evening. When they’re standing outside the restaurant saying their goodbyes, Henry asks when he can come to their place for another sleepover.

“You’re the one with the busy schedule,” Dean tells him. “We’re old and boring and always home.”

Cas hugs him. “Have your people contact our people.”

“We’ll get something on the calendar,” Eileen promises.

Sam hugs his brother last, holding him for an extra long moment. “Take care of yourself,” he says softly in Dean’s ear.

Dean knows it’s meant out of kindness and love but something about it makes him bristle. It’s not Sam’s job to look after him. Once that initial reaction settles though, once he allows himself to move past that wave of defensiveness, a layer of sadness takes its place. If his brother is spending time worried about him, that means Dean’s falling down on the job.

When he and Cas are back in the car ready to head home, Dean sighs and tightens his hands on the wheel. “If you think I need to talk to somebody, I will.”

Cas turns to look at him, his eyes cautious. “Where did that come from? I mean, I’m glad to hear it, but why now?”

“I know you and Sam have been talking about me.” Cas opens his mouth to respond but Dean cuts him off. “It’s fine,” he says bitterly. “I get it. You care and shit.”

To his credit, Cas snorts. “We hereby apologize for loving you.” Dean rolls his eyes. “Look, he and I both know how determined you are to handle everything on your own. You had to early on and it wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair, but you did it. Look at Sam—I’d say you did a damn fine job.”

Dean swallows around the tightness that’s suddenly appeared in his throat. “He’s a smart kid. Always has been.”

“No,” Cas says sharply. “Don’t you dare undermine your own accomplishment where he’s concerned. You were just a kid yourself when you had to step up. The point is, you’ve held it together all these years, but that doesn’t mean the pain you went through at the time just went away.” His voice softens. “You have people in your life who want to look out for you and maybe now it’s your turn to be on the receiving end.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “I _do_ like being on the receiving end.”

“Dean,” Cas says, but he’s smiling.

“I said I’d do it, okay?”

Cas takes his hand. “I love you.”

“Gross,” Dean says, but he squeezes his hand back.

***

It pains Dean to do it but he puts in another call to Dr. Tran’s office. Then he has to play phone tag with her until he’s finally able to close himself in his car and talk to her in private because there’s no way he’s taking this call in his office.

“Hey, there, Dean. What can I do for you?”

“Uh hey, Dr. Tran. Thanks for getting back to me.” Dean knows he’s stalling but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s somehow disappointing her with this information. “I wanted to get some info from you about finding somebody to talk to.” Jesus, he can’t even bring himself to say the word “therapist” which is probably half his problem.

“Are you still having panic attacks?”

“Yeah. I had another one. And I’m having nightmares. I’m doing the breathing and stuff you gave me, but it feels like it’s getting worse and not better.”

“Sometimes these can just be symptoms and you’ve got to deal with the underlying cause.” He can almost see her nod in that crisp, decisive way she has.

“Yeah, I guess. Anyhow, I want to stay married so I told Cas I’d look into seeing someone.”

“Things with you and Cas okay?” Her voice has taken on a sharper tone, now. Not harsh, but more focused.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re fine,” Dean hurries to clarify. “Just a joke. A bad one, I guess.”

“I’m sure he just wants what’s best for you, Dean. Like we all do. I’m glad you reached out and I can send you a list of providers that take your insurance for you to check out.”

“Okay. That sounds great. Thank you.”

“Anything else I can do while you’ve got me on the phone?”

Dean hesitates, wondering if he should bring up needing something to help him sleep, but it's bad enough that he's had to ask for this. Hopefully once he talks to someone and people stop worrying about him, everything will fall back into place. Besides he's only had to resort to a middle of the night drink a couple of times. _Yeah_ , _put me out of my misery with a ball peen hammer,_ Dean thinks but his last joke didn’t go over great so he swallows it down and says. “Nope, that’s it. Thanks again.”

When he gets the list, he sits at the table and googles each of the names on it to help him make a decision. Three of them are women and one is a man. The locations vary from the heart of downtown to one that he could practically walk to from his eastside location. He looks at their pictures and reads up on their practices. They all talk about stress and coping and shit like that. One refers to holistic health and another promises to make him the best version of himself. He snorts outright at that, muttering _Good fucking luck_ under his breath.

Finally he decides on the one downtown. It’ll give him a chance to drive a little bit and, to be honest, lowering the risk of not running into anyone he knows factors pretty highly in his decision. Checking the clock he sees that he’s got about forty-five minutes before Cas will be home so he takes a deep breath and picks up his phone to punch in the number. As it rings, he wonders what he’s supposed to say. _Hi, I’m Dean Winchester and I think I’m going crazy._

When the receptionist answers he manages to request an appointment like a normal human being although he finds himself pacing around the living room as she searches the calendar to suggest some dates.

“Okay, sir, it looks like she has some availability on June 22nd in the morning or after lunch on the 23rd.”

Dean stops his pacing. “June?”

“Yes, sir, she’s pretty booked up right now.”

It’s the end of April. Suddenly the only thing worse than going to talk to a therapist is having to wait nearly two months to do it. “Is that usually how it works? I mean does it always take so long?”

“It’s different for every practice,” she explains smoothly. “But if you’d like I can put you on our cancellation list and if something opens up we can try to get you in sooner.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean sighs. “Let’s do that, I guess.”

On a whim, he calls another number on the list… the male therapist. Nobody answers, but he leaves a message on the voicemail about wanting to schedule an appointment. If nothing else, he can report to Cas that he’s put out a few feelers. He’s not sure if it makes him feel better or worse to have done it. He’s tired of not sleeping, of feeling on edge all the time wondering if something is going to set him off into another panic attack. He lies awake at night afraid to sleep and then he wakes in the morning afraid he’ll flip his shit randomly in the middle of the day.

But the last thing he wants to do is go lie on a couch and get his fucking head shrunk. As he starts to get dinner ready, he begins to worry about the specifics. Are they gonna make him talk about his mom? How the hell is he supposed to talk about someone he scarcely remembers? _How does that make you feel?_ he imagines them asking him every five minutes. “How the fuck do you think?” he says out loud through gritted teeth, then works his jaw for a moment. He still needs to follow up with the dentist. Just one more thing he's managed to fail at doing. 

By the time Cas gets home, dinner is simmering on the stove. “God, it smells good in here,” he says, bending to kiss Dean where he sits on the couch. “Now I remember why I married you.”

“Yeah, that must be it,” Dean agrees, reaching up to smack his butt. He knows it’s just a joke but it rolls around in his brain like a kernel of truth. He _has_ been pretty difficult to live with lately. He should probably be doing more to make things easier for Cas. “It still needs some time to cook, though, if you wanna go change first.”

“Sure.” He takes Dean’s hand. “Come talk to me while I do. How was your day?”

“Good. Busy but boring.” He sits on the bed in order to shamelessly ogle his husband as he changes out of his button down shirt and slacks. “You?”

“Spent some time working on my conference presentation today while I was manning the reference desk so that’s coming along.”

“That’s great,” Dean says sincerely. “You’re gonna knock them dead.”

Cas laughs. “That seems extreme. I’m mostly hoping to educate them.”

“I stand by what I said.” Dean rubs a hand at the back of his neck. “So, I, uh called a few therapists today.”

Immediately Cas stops what he’s doing and turns to face Dean directly. “You did? That’s great.”

Dean feels a little flash of annoyance that Cas is looking at him like a child he’s proud of for finishing his homework. It just serves to make him realize how bad off Cas must think he is. “Yeah, well, the first one doesn’t have any openings until the end of _June_.” He watches in satisfaction as Cas’s eyebrows raise at that. “Right? But I made an appointment and got on their cancellation list too. I called a second place as well but nobody answered. I left a message though so hopefully someone will call me back before Christmas.”

Cas nods and pulls a t-shirt over his head. “That’s frustrating, but it’s great that you’re starting the process.”

“I guess,” Dean says, getting to his feet now that the show is over.

Cas puts his arms around him. “It is. I’m proud of you.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but hugs him back. “You wanna give me a gold star sticker or something?”

Cas slides his hands down to Dean’s waist, pulling him closer until he can grind gently against him. “Something for sure.”

His earlier annoyance forgotten, Dean kisses him hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for discussion of sleep paralysis and another panic attack.
> 
>   
> Have you ever had sleep paralysis? I've had it twice and it's super terrifying. Only seemed fitting that I should plant the seed in Dean's mind as a possibility for what's going on. Spoiler Alert: That's not what's going on. 
> 
> When Dean talks about maybe needing a little chaos in his life as he broaches the idea of getting a dog, that's a direct quote from my mom. She had a Westie she named Chaos for that very reason!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end note for content warnings.
> 
> Well, I've been volunteering with a vaccine clinic which meant I became eligible to get my shot well ahead of my age group. The first one gave me no problem other than a sore arm, but I got the second dose yesterday and I felt cold and achy all night and had a small temperature when I woke up this morning. But I know that's a good sign that it's working! Still, I'm glad I got this chapter all drafted and ready to go on Friday. 
> 
> What's the vaccine roll out looking like where you are?

The second therapist calls back the following day, and to Dean’s surprise, it’s the guy himself and not a receptionist. Dean’s not sure what to expect, but he’s desperate enough to have picked up the call at work so he gets up to close his office door as they say their hellos. The therapist introduces himself as Dr. Fox. He has a calm demeanor and a pleasant voice, and Dean gets a little distracted mid-call wondering if that’s part of the training they have to go through. Probably doesn’t help if your therapist bellows like a drill sergeant or something.

“I got your message about wanting to make an appointment.”

“Yeah, I called another place and they didn’t have any openings until late June so I was hoping to get in somewhere sooner.” Shit. Hopefully this guy won’t be offended that he wasn’t Dean’s first choice.

He hears some clicking on a keyboard in the background. “Luckily, I do have some openings in my schedule for this week or next week, if you can make that work.”

Dean’s relief turns immediately to worry. End of June was too late but this week? “Next week should work,” he says, even though there’s no other reason than he’s not ready to do this any sooner.

They confirm a date and time and then Dr. Fox says, ‘We will of course talk in more detail when you come in, but what would you say is your most pressing issue for making this appointment?”

“Stress, I guess? I started having some panic attacks recently.”

“Those can be extremely distressing,” he says. “All right, I look forward to meeting you next week.”

“Same. Thanks.”

Ending the phone call, Dean realizes that he actually feels slightly better. He’s still stressed as hell about going in the first place but having this appointment on the calendar feels like it’s caused something deep inside him to settle a little bit. He’s taking care of himself and Cas and Sam will both be happy. Things are bound to get better as a result.

***

The office is nothing special to look at, tucked inside a regular office building. Dean finds a parking spot right in front and, double checking the suite number on the board in the lobby, takes the elevator up to the third floor. He finds a small waiting area with nobody in it and he stands, hesitating for a few minutes before a door opens and a man maybe in his mid-fifties comes out. He’s balding on top, with a neatly trimmed beard. He’s dressed in what Dean considers office casual…khaki pants and a button down shirt. Not all that different from how Cas dresses for work and that thought makes him feel a little bit better.

Dr. Fox introduces himself to Dean and ushers him into his office where there’s a desk, an arm chair and a couch. Dean stands in the office and eyes the couch suspiciously. The doctor must sense his nervousness because he says, “Feel free to sit anywhere you’d like.”

Dean chooses the armchair and lowers himself into it. In response, Dr. Fox repositions his desk chair so he can sit facing Dean. “Glad you could make it today. No problem finding the place?”

Small talk. Dean can do that. “Nope, pretty easy. Nice to have so much parking on site.” His palms are starting to sweat but he doesn’t want to wipe them on his pants.

“Great,” he says, nodding. “Great. So, you mentioned that you’ve been having panic attacks recently.”

“Yeah. The first one happened maybe… a month or so ago? I was having my breakfast like normal and next thing I know I was freaking out in the corner.” Dean tries to laugh it off a little because it is pretty fucked up, but he doesn’t like talking about it, even in such vague terms. He feels some tingling in his fingers and his chest begins to go a little tight and jesus fuck is he going to have another one right here?

He realizes the doctor has asked him a question and he’s completely missed it. “Sorry?”

“I said I’d like to take a quick history so I can get a little background information. That can help us to put the current issue into a broader context.”

It’s the weirdest thing. Dean hears himself answer, hears himself continue to talk as the doctor goes down a list. But it’s like he’s watching himself from outside his body, like watching a video of himself having been in this session. The pounding heart is gone, replaced with a detachment that Dean finds equal parts comforting and concerning. He watches as he gives the doctor the rundown on his family life: losing his mother early, father with a drinking problem, raising his younger brother. He says no to questions of substance abuse, to any history of physical or sexual abuse. He reassures the doctor that he and Cas have a loving marriage. All the while, though, he’s glad nothing else is expected of him because his limbs feel rigid and heavy, like the air has turned thick. It makes him feel like there are long pauses as he waits for the doctor’s questions to make sense, big delays until the answers come out of his own mouth.

Time seems to have slowed to a crawl in this office and Dean really needs to get the fuck out of here. He doesn’t know how to get up and leave, though, and then finally, _finally_ the doctor puts down his clipboard where he’s been recording Dean’s responses.

“Did you have any questions for me?”

The casual, open look on his face tells Dean he hasn’t noticed that his patient is so close to losing his shit.

“Nope,” Dean hears himself say. “I don’t think so.”

Dean’s even able to pull out his phone so they can schedule the next visit, but even as he’s putting it on his calendar, Dean knows there’s no way in hell he’s coming back here. They say their goodbyes and, feeling like a puppet on a string, Dean gets up from his chair and walks out the door, taking the elevator back to the lobby. Outside, the fresh air hits him and he walks back to his car, but he doesn't get in right away. It’s too close and he paces back and forth on the sidewalk a little bit until he feels things snap back into place.

He drives home on autopilot, not even remembering that he was planning to go back to the office after the appointment. Sitting in his car, he stares at his townhouse. Fuck it, there are perks that come with being the boss and taking the rest of today off is going to be one of them.

He lets himself inside. It’s strange to be home in the middle of the day. Usually there’s an hour or so when he’s waiting for Cas to come home, but now he has the entire afternoon stretching out in front of him. He could take a nap or a shower or lie on the couch and watch a movie. He doesn’t do any of those things, though, spending time walking circles around the downstairs, just trying to get his head in order. It isn’t until he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket that he remembers he needs to let somebody at the garage know he’s not coming back. The text is from Cas, asking how it went, but Dean ignores it to text Charlie instead. He leaves Cas on read until Charlie texts back a prompt “Enjoy!” and then he sits down, his phone in his hand.

He knows what Cas wants to hear. He’d love nothing more than for Dean to text back an enthusiastic response outlining how good it was, how relieved he feels, how excited he is about starting on this road to feeling better. Possibly even more than Cas wants to hear it, Dean wants to be able to tell him that. He’d love for that look of worry to vanish from his husband’s face, for the crease between his brows to smooth again. Dean’s dragging him down too, he knows that. It’s bad enough that he’s so fucking high maintenance right now with his fractured sleep and inability to walk through a goddamned house like a normal person, but to be an anchor around Cas’s ankle as well? That’s too much to ask.

Still, he has to say something. The longer he waits, the worse it will be and he knows that if he doesn’t respond back with a text soon he runs the risk of dealing with an actual phone call and that’ll be a lot worse.

Dean tries to think back over the session. He knows he sat in the office for nearly an hour but he can’t seem to pull up the doctor’s face. There was a lamp on his desk, brass with a woven fabric shade and Dean can picture that but the rest of it feels like it’s been blurred out.

_Fine_ , he texts back but even as he hits send he knows that isn’t enough and he adds a second reply. _Mostly just general history and intake stuff._

Cas texts back the thumbs up emoji and it’s so dumb that Dean feels himself relax a little. He’s antsy, though, unable to sit still and he decides to make use of his free time to get some cleaning done. When he’s finished mopping the kitchen, he helps himself to a drink because why the hell not? He’s basically got a vacation day.

“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” he says out loud when he refills his glass. That’s better. The alcohol softens the anxious edges of his brain and before long he’s feeling loose and good. Not enough to lie down though, yet. He’s got to keep moving. The produce drawer in the refrigerator needs a good scrubbing and after he finishes that, he decides it’s no time to leave the job half done and he starts going through the entire contents, pulling things out so he can clean the shelves properly. He’s got his music playing loudly, but nobody would dare complain in the middle of the day like this. He thinks again about how nice it will be to have their own house, to not have to worry about what their neighbors think. Then he thinks about standing in that doorway, with the workshop in the distance, and he’s hit with a series of flashes. A bright, unrelenting light. Being unable to move. Searing pain. Each one only lasts a moment, but they shake him to his very core and he realizes he’s trying to catch his breath as his heart races in his chest. But hey, he knows how to make it go away now and he finds his glass and fills it again, frowning at the nearly empty bottle. Might as well finish it.

_Now_ he’s ready for that nap. Stretching out on the couch, he happily goes dead to the world for a bit.

He wakes to Cas standing over him. Dean’s happy to see his husband, but there’s a tight set to his jaw. “Dean?” He’s shaking Dean’s shoulder and Dean looks at his hand to try and make sense of what’s happening.

Dean squints up at him. “Took a nap,” he mumbles.

“What happened to the kitchen?” Cas says and Dean pushes to a sitting position. The refrigerator and freezer doors are standing open, their contents strewn around the kitchen counters. He can see a carton of ice cream has tipped over, pooling on the counter before dripping onto what had briefly been a freshly mopped floor.

“Uh,” he says. “I mopped and I was cleaning the refrigerator and…” he trails off because he’s not exactly sure what happened.

“Are you drunk?” He wishes Cas would get mad, because that’s what he deserves. This soft sadness in his voice is exponentially worse.

“I didn’t go back to work this afternoon,” Dean says like that explains everything. Cas pushes a hand through his hair and starts to sit down beside him but Dean hurries to his feet, gritting his teeth as he focuses on staying steady. “Let me clean this up.”

He hears Cas sigh, but he doesn’t turn around even when he hears footsteps following him. “I can help.”

“No,” Dean says sharply. “No, I mean I made this mess, let me deal with it.”

“I know today was hard for you,” Cas begins.

Dean grabs the dripping ice cream carton and throws it into the sink. “No, you don’t know. Because you’re not the one whose brain has decided to totally fuck with you. You’re not the one who has people discussing you behind your back, all trying to decide how to fix you. You wanted me to go talk to someone and I did, okay? It wasn’t for me.” He gathers up the ketchup and mustard bottles and begins to replace them in the fridge. Oh great, he did a shitty job of cleaning the shelves, no big surprise there. He turns back around to grab a few more things and sees Cas standing there, looking like Dean’s slapped him.

“I’m gonna go get changed,” he says softly and turns away.

Dean puts everything back in the refrigerator, salvaging what he can for the freezer and pitching the rest. He rinses out the empty whiskey bottle and puts it in the recycling bin. Still Cas doesn’t return. Dean waits, wiping off the counters and then drinking a big glass of water.

He realizes that he can’t remember the last time one of them came home and didn’t immediately kiss the other hello before anything else was said or done. It puts a chill into his bones that’s worse than anything else he’s dealt with today. He gives the kitchen one last survey but there’s no longer anything left to do to prevent him from going upstairs. Cas is in the bathroom, door shut, and Dean sits on the edge of the bed to wait for him. When Cas finally opens the door, he stops in his tracks, clearly surprised to see Dean there.

“Hey,” Dean says. Cas doesn’t answer. “Can we try this again?”

“Please.”

“I’m sorry.” Dean wishes Cas would come sit by him, but he doesn’t blame him for staying where he is. “You’re right. The session was… I don’t even have words for it but it felt bad. Like, it made me feel worse.”

Cas nods and takes a few tentative steps toward him. “They say sometimes it can take a couple of tries to find the right person—“

“I tried, Cas. I don’t care what ‘they’ say, I need you to listen to what _I’m_ saying. I just need to do this my own way.”

Now Cas does join him on the bed. “Dean, getting drunk in the middle of the day can’t be your way.”

“No, I know,” Dean says quickly. “That was a fluke. I came home and I felt bad and I should’ve done literally anything else to deal with it.” He reaches for Cas’s hand. “I should’ve talked to you.”

Cas lets out a big breath and pulls Dean into an embrace. “You know you can, right? About anything.”

“I do know that.”

“Look, it’s your brain, I get that. But this is our life and I want us to be a team.”

Dean tries to lighten the mood. “Rah rah. Gonna get us matching jerseys?” He’s rewarded with a small smile, there but only briefly.

“I mean it, Dean. You don’t have to do this alone. I don’t want to come home and find you like that again. It doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence.”

“I feel terrible, I really do. I know better than that. Hell, if I learned anything from my dad, it’s that this isn’t the answer.” He stares off for a moment, eyes narrowed. “I… I wonder if my dad dealt with some of this stuff? And that’s why he drank?” Dean’s never had that thought before. He spent a long time trying to make excuses for his dad’s behavior before John had become the object of Dean’s ire, fully responsible for his own bad choices, It causes some sort of shift inside him to think that maybe his father had been a victim at some level, maybe struggling in ways that Dean didn’t understand before now. Sure, Dean only managed one visit to a therapist but John would’ve never even considered it as an option, that much he knows for sure.

“It’s possible,” Cas says, smoothing Dean’s hair. “If that was the case, I’m sorry he wasn’t able to reach out to anyone.”

“I know how lucky I am to have you. I haven’t been making it easy, but I do appreciate everything you’ve done.”

“I love you.” Dean will never not be taken slightly aback at how easily they say these words, and how they never seem to lose their impact.

“I love you, too.” Dean swallows. “Can you kiss me hello now?”

Cas does.

***

It happens when he least expects it. There’s no news playing in the background. He’s not standing in a strange house looking across the yard. He doesn’t wake up from a nightmare bathed in sweat, scrambling to interpret visions into a cohesive whole.

He simply remembers.

It’s maybe a week later and he’s in the shower, warm water soothing his tight shoulders. He’s thinking about what he needs to do that day at work, mentally plotting his plan of attack when it comes rushing back.

And his legs nearly go out from under him as the memory slams back in. He lets out a sound he never knew he could make, a strangled cry as the air feels violently ripped from his lungs. Cas is still in bed, but Dean hears him open the bathroom door.

“Dean? Are you okay? I heard—“

“Cas?” His voice is quavering and he can’t tell what’s water from the shower and what are the tears streaming down his face. “Oh God.”

Cas tugs back the shower curtain. “What is it?”

“Oh God, Cas, Oh God, I remember. I remember now.” Still staring straight ahead, Dean braces an arm against the wall because without it he doesn’t think he can stay upright. Vaguely he notices that the water stops running and he feels a towel being wrapped around his shoulders.

“I’ve got you, Dean. Come on, can you come out of the tub?” Cas helps to support his weight and Dean moves one leg and then the other, woodenly climbing over the edge of the tub. The minute both feet are on the bathmat he gives in to gravity and sprawls inelegantly onto the floor.

He still can’t look at Cas, can’t seem to look away from the movie playing in his mind.

“It’s okay, Dean. You’re here with me.” Cas sits beside him, one arm still keeping him close. “You said you remember?”

Dean nods, unable to make the words come out. But even as he struggles with them, he knows that it’s right. “I—“ he begins, but that’s not it. “He hurt me.” Dean can feel it all again: the terror of wondering if this would be the night, the walk across the yard, the leering face of the man who held him down and hurt him. He doesn’t know why he’s not having a panic attack about this. Terror still wrenches through his core, but for once it’s like his body isn’t trying to outrun it.

“Who did, Dean?”

Dean finally meets Cas’s eyes. “How did I not remember?” Cas’s eyes are wide with concern and Dean’s so tired of putting that look on his face. Dean should be freaking out, but instead he feels a deathly calm washing over him. For some reason, the most pressing thing has become his own curiosity. “How could I forget?”

Cas shakes his head the tiniest bit, like he’s trying to understand. “I want to help you, Dean, but I don’t understand what you’re telling me.”

“A man—a cop—“ Dean swallows down the bile threatening to push its way out. “He worked with my dad. He would bring his car to our house so my dad could work on it and… he took me into the garage and… hurt me.” _Rape_ , his brain says. _He raped you._ But Dean can’t make that word come out of his mouth and even thinking it gives him a searing flash of pain in his head. He grabs at his head with both hands.

“Oh my God, Dean.” Cas pulls him close, wrapping him in an embrace. Dean realizes he’s wet and naked on the bathroom floor but he doesn’t care. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

Dean lets himself be held, but he needs to make Cas understand and he wriggles out of his grasp. “It didn’t happen to me,” he says, “I mean, yes, it did. It wasn’t a thing that happened to me, though.” Why can’t he find the words? “It wasn’t a one time thing. It happened a lot. Over and over.” He looks at his husband, eyes searching his stricken face. “How could I forget?”

Dean’s dry-eyed now but Cas’s lip is quivering and his eyes are glossy with tears. “Can you get up? Can we go into the other room?”

“No.” Dean feels like it’s one thing to deal with this here on the bathroom rug. What happened then, what he remembers, was real. He doesn’t know how to explain that if they leave the confines of this small bathroom that’s going to make it real again _now_. It’s going to mean he can’t safely forget it again.

“Okay. We’ll stay here as long as you need to.” They sit for a long time, backs against the hard fiberglass side of the tub. Dean hears the showerhead occasionally drip and he watches individual drops of water as they trail down the fogged-up mirror over the sink.

Finally, Cas speaks, gently rubbing his thumb over the back of Dean’s hand. “When you say he hurt you…?”

They both know what he’s asking. Dean can only nod. Cas takes in a long gasping breath.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again.

“What am I supposed to do with this information?” Dean’s baffled. He knows it’s the wrong thing to be focusing on but how in the hell is he supposed to get up and go about his day like he received an email about new arrivals in his favorite store. “Do I just go to work?”

“Take today off.”

“I’m not sick, though,” Dean insists.

“You had a trauma,” Cas says. “Let’s just get through today and we’ll figure it out.”

“It was so long ago. Why am I remembering it now?” A bit of familiar panic risis in his chest. He can’t do this. “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m having some sort of breakdown. This doesn’t make any sense.”

“There’s no reason for you to make this up,” Cas says. “You haven’t been yourself lately and maybe this is why.”

“But what do I _do_?” There’s no unknowing this information again.

“I don’t know but I do know you aren’t the first person to deal with something like this. We’ll find you someone to talk to.”

“Cas, I’m scared.” His voice is barely above a whisper and there are those tears streaming down his face again even though he’s not crying. He buries his face in Cas’s shoulder and tries to remember what he knows is true. Cas is here. Dean’s safe and Cas loves him. _And you were raped_ , his brain adds to the list.

Dean scrambles out of Cas’s embrace to kneel in front of the toilet. The bitter taste of bile burns and he spits into the water once his stomach has finished emptying itself. Cas is there, with a cup of water from the sink. With shaky hands, Dean accepts it. “Jesus, not how I expected my day to go.”

“I’m going to get you some clothes, okay?”

“Yeah.”

When Cas leaves, Dean tries to take stock. Everything hurts. His stomach, his burning throat, his head. His shoulders feel like they’re in knots and he can’t seem to stop trembling. He sips at the water, then grabs the discarded towel from the floor. It’s damp and cold but he wipes at his face with it. Finally he gets himself to his feet and he’s brushing his teeth when Cas comes back in with clothes for him.

“I let Charlie know you won’t be in and I called off work. Do you think you can eat something?”

“You didn’t have to do that, Cas.”

“You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

The gratefulness he feels is at war with the guilt. “Maybe some toast?”

Cas smiles and Dean knows that was the right answer. “Let me go get that started.”

Dean dresses, noting Cas brought him pajama pants and an old, soft t-shirt like this really is a sick day. By the time he makes it downstairs, he’s feeling a bit better.

“Does coffee sound good? Or does tea seem better?”

“I’m not dying,” he says, relieved to see Cas’s mouth quirk into a smile. “Let me get some coffee going.”

“I can—“

“I need something to do.”

“Of course.”

They move around the kitchen in silence, Cas still in his pajamas, his hair sticking up. He’d gone from sleeping to leaping out of bed to take care of Dean. It’s not until they’re sitting at the table that they speak again.

Cas watches Dean, making sure that he’s taken a few bites before focusing on his own plate. Dean’s not hungry and each bite of toast is an effort to swallow, but he keeps at it, washing it down with sips of hot coffee that seem to sour in his stomach. Maybe he should’ve gone with tea.

“Do you… want to talk about it some more?” Cas ventures.

“I don’t know. What is there to say? I don’t really want to think about it.”

“I feel like we should tell someone? Dr. Tran, maybe?”

“What’s she going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

After breakfast Dean lies on the couch with his head in Cas’s lap. Cas puts on a show they’ve watched a million times before and they let the familiarity wash over them. Cas strokes his fingers through Dean’s hair, over and over, a soothing, calming gesture. Dean stares at the television screen, but his eyes are unfocused, unable to concentrate fully on what’s happening inside of him or out.

***

_Are you around?_ Dean texts his brother.

_Still at work._ _What’s up?_

_I need to talk to you about something._

_You wanna call me?_

Nope, Dean thinks. I don’t want to do this at all, but he’s decided this is the next step. _No, I’d rather do it in person._ He knows as soon as he sends it that this is going to be like a flare going up to his brother.

_That’s big. You pregnant?_

Despite everything, Dean manages a small laugh. _Now you’ve ruined the surprise. Seriously, though, can you come by on your way home?_

Sam knows Dean would never pass up a chance to spend some time with Henry so asking him to come alone is another red flag. His response comes as no surprise. _Sure. Is everything ok?_

Yes? Dean thinks. No? I don’t know? Technically this is all ancient history so he decides he can answer in the affirmative. _Yeah, I just need to ask you about something._

Dean’s house has never been cleaner because every time he finds himself too alone with his thoughts, he jumps up to keep his hands and body busy. While he waits for Sam to arrive, he considers pulling all the sofa cushions off to vacuum underneath them, but then he worries that he won’t hear Sam at the door if he does that, so he settles for going outside to pull some weeds along the front walk. He’s got his hands in the dirt when Sam pulls up.

“You’re gardening now? That _is_ breaking news.”

Dean gets to his feet, wiping his hands on his jeans. “It’s called being a responsible homeowner, Sam. You should try it sometime.” That doesn’t even make sense, but it feels right to give his brother shit.

“That’s why I had a kid. Cheap household labor.” Sam taps his temple like he’s a genius.

“That kid would lose a fight against a dandelion,” Dean says fondly. “How’s he doing?”

“Good. He’ll be mad I got to see you and he didn’t.” Sam says it lightly but Dean knows it’s his way of asking what’s going on.

“Yeah, about that… let’s go inside.”

In the house, Dean offers Sam something to drink but he shakes his head. Dean doesn’t know how to do this without keeping his hands occupied, though, so he pours the old coffee left in the bottom of the pot into a mug then puts it in the microwave to reheat. Sam grimaces. “You should love yourself enough to make a fresh cup.”

Dean pulls the now-hot cup out of the microwave. The kitchen is small and it feels a little claustrophobic to start this conversation here, but Dean appreciates the solid feel of the counter against his lower back. “This is going to sound crazy but I remembered something from when we were kids and I guess I wanted to see if you remembered anything about it.”

A look of confusion crosses Sam’s face but all he says is, “Sure, hit me.”

“You remember how Dad used to fix cars at home?”

“Of course.”

“People from work would bring their personal vehicles to him.”

“Yeah, that’s why he had the garage out back.” Sam smiles ruefully. “I was always mad he wouldn’t let me help.”

_You have to be ten,_ Dean remembers his father saying. _There are a lot of dangerous tools and only big kids can help._ He grips the mug a little more tightly in his hands. “I had this memory recently. Of being back there with one of Dad’s friends.”

Sam nods. “I remember they used to come and hang out. It sounded like a party back there some nights.”

Dean makes a scoffing sound. “This wasn’t a party.” He sets the cup down, without ever having taken a drink. “I don’t even exactly know why I’m asking you this. I’m just trying to decide if I’m losing my mind or what.”

“Dean, what’s going on?”

Taking a deep breath, Dean fixes his gaze a little bit over Sam’s right shoulder. “I remember being in the garage and one of Dad’s friends…” Dean keeps playing with the language in his mind but none of the words feel right, especially not when he’s dumping the very concept on his brother for the first time. “Molested me.”

Sam’s eyes go wide. “What? Holy shit.”

“It was so long ago and I just don’t know how to figure out if what I’m remembering is accurate. So I guess I’m wondering if there was anything you remember me saying or doing that would fit.”

He can see Sam’s eyes dart back and forth, like he’s running a search. “I can’t think of anything off the top of my head? I mean, I always felt better when you came back to the house because I had to stay there alone, but I don’t remember you being upset or anything? Plus after a while I spent a lot of those nights at Bobby’s.” He looks at Dean. “Did you tell Dad?”

Dean rubs at his forehead with the heel of his hand. “I can’t remember. I just remember it… happening.”

“Do you remember who it was?”

Dean nods. That part had been crystal clear as soon as the memories came back. His throat feels like it’s going to close up around the name but he chokes it out. “Joe Alastair.”

“The one up for chief of police? Dean, are you sure?”

At this Dean snaps. “You think I’d forget who did something like that to me, Sam? Someone who hurt me over and over?”

Sam holds up his hands. “I’m not trying to undermine you, I swear.” He hesitates before continuing. “But I mean, it sounds like you did do that. You forgot all of this until just now? Are you sure you’re remembering right? I’m trying to think about how a story like this would hold up in court and—”

Dean feels something hard tighten in his chest. “I don’t need a lawyer right now. I need a brother.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam says immediately. “This just caught me off guard.”

“Yeah, well, how the fuck do you think I feel?”

“I can’t even imagine. I’m so sorry, Dean. So sorry that happened to you.”

“You mean _if_ it happened.”

Sam shakes his head. “Of course I believe you.”

“I didn’t mean to snap at you. I know this is a lot.” Dean squares his shoulders. “And I know deep down that it’s the absolute truth. I just wish I had some way to prove I’m not making it up. But you don’t remember anything and Dad’s long gone…”

“Have you told Cas?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t tell his brother how his husband had to basically pick him up off the bathroom floor, naked and shivering.

“Good,” Sam nods. “That’s really good. If you want someone professional to talk to, I’m sure Eileen can find some—“

“I’m fine, Sam. I’m dealing with it.” He waves a hand between them. “Talking about it, see?”

“That’s good,” Sam says again. “But Dean, this is a big deal. It’s not something you just get over.”

“Yeah, well, it appears I did just that for a very long time.”

They stand in silence for a long moment before Sam looks at him, his eyes full of emotion. There’s a hint of sorrow there and pity and it makes Dean’s skin feel too tight. “Jesus. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say. That’s fucking horrible.”

“Thanks,” Dean says, but that feels weird. “Okay, sorry for freaking you out.”

“Oh my God, don’t apologize to _me_.” Sam steps forward like he wants to hug him but Dean puts up a hand to stop him.

“I’m still me and we are not doing this.”

“We hug all the time, Dean.” Sam’s bitchface is refreshingly normal.

“When I say we do,” Dean says. He cocks his head toward the door. “Thanks for coming by. Now get on home to your wife and child.”

Despite his words, Sam rests a hand on Dean’s shoulder and Dean finds himself looking up into his brother’s eyes. “Thank you for trusting me with this.” Dean rolls his eyes, but Sam isn’t done. “Seriously, this is a big deal. Can I tell Eileen or would you rather I didn’t?”

Dean loves Eileen. He trusts her and he knows she’s compassionate and loves him back. Still, he’s told two people now and each time he does, it leaves him in a cold sweat, his stomach twisting. “Maybe not yet.”

“Sure. Sure, I get that.” Sam still looks like he wants to hug but Dean stays exactly where he is and finally his brother settles for squeezing his shoulder. “Okay, if you need anything, just call me, okay? Anytime.”

Great. Now Sam will be worried about him, treating him like he’s fragile or broken. He doesn’t need his brother checking in, and making those big sad puppy dog eyes. “I’m fine. I promise. Now get outta here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for Dean dissociating during a therapy session and later regaining memories of his childhood sexual abuse/rape.
> 
> I do apologize if you thought Dean reaching out to a therapist was going to magically put him on the right path. I'll just be here ducking whatever you find to throw at me.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end note for content warnings.

Work is good. When he’s at work, there are people around, customers trailing in and out of the building all day, the door chiming with each one. There’s the sound of power tools and the hiss of hydraulic lifts. Engines growl and roar and purr and people yell across the shop floor. It’s enough to keep Dean out of his head and able to focus on things in his office, even if his attention seems generally short-lived. It feels like he can never fully immerse himself in anything because some portion of his brain is constantly processing his memories. 

Now that the messages his brain has been trying to send him have become overt, his dreams have stopped being cryptic, at least. That doesn’t give him a respite from the nightmares, though--not even close. Instead of cloaking his anxiety beneath misleading layers of car crashes and police officers restraining him, each night he’s free to relive the memories of one particular man holding him down. 

So, yeah, work is good. Even though nobody besides Cas and Sam know the truth of what he’s dealing with, work is where he feels the most like himself. Like his old self, anyhow. He’s actually pretty pleased with how he’s managing things, and today, when his attention starts to drift from what he’s working on, it’s a welcome reprieve to look up and see Benny standing in his office doorway. 

Dean sits back in his desk chair to roll his shoulders. “Hey, man.”

“You got a minute?” 

“Of course. Come on in.” Benny does, closing the door behind him and that’s enough to have Dean immediately on alert. Whatever shit they have to say to each other can usually be said in front of everyone--and generally is, if for no other reason than pure comedic effect. Trying not to fidget, Dean waits as Benny settles himself into the chair across from him. “What’s up?” 

Benny pulls out his phone. “I saw your latest email to the staff.” Dean nods. He’s had some new ideas about organization and process, and typing them up seems a much better use of his time than lying awake staring at the ceiling after a nightmare. “This is the fourth one in thirty-six hours.”

“Yeah, I know it’s a lot, I’ve just been trying to get things down on paper when the ideas strike me.”

“The thing is we just changed a bunch of this stuff last winter.”

Dean looks at him. “There’s always room for improvement. That’s my job.”

“No, we know,” Benny says, his Southern drawl set to maximum soothe, like Dean needs to be handled. Dean immediately goes on the defensive. 

“We?” Dean tries to keep the accusation out of his voice. “Are you here on behalf of the entire staff?” Benny raises a hand in a placating gesture, but Dean is having none of it. Without even meaning to, he gets to his feet. “If people are having an issue, they need to come talk to me.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do here. Look, Dean, nobody’s having an issue, they’re just a little demoralized to feel like all the work they put in previously was for nothing. Maybe if we had a meeting to explain the reasoning behind your decisions it would help with morale.”

“Are you telling me how to do my job now?” Benny starts to respond but Dean doesn’t let him. “Maybe you’d like to be in charge and be the one trying to keep this place afloat.” Dean’s not even sure why he said that because both garages are doing fine, but where the fuck does Benny get off criticizing the way Dean’s running his own business. 

Now Benny gets to his feet as well. “Okay, look. I know you’re my boss, but you and I are friends, too, right?”

Jaw tight, Dean nods. 

“This. What’s happening right here. As a friend, I’m concerned.” Dean finds himself unable to look Benny in the eye. “You’re making all these changes and sending emails in the middle of the night. Of course you’re well within your right to run this business however you see fit but we’re used to feeling like… more of a team, I guess?”

“Sorry,” Dean says woodenly. He thought this was better, finding some way to keep his mind and body occupied when the panic started to set in, better than pouring himself a drink in the middle of the night. But apparently no matter what he does, it’s pissing off somebody. He drops back into his seat heavily. “I’ll dial it back.”

He half expects Benny to turn on his heel and leave, but instead he sits back down. “Everything okay with you?”

“I’m just dealing with some shit. And, no, before you ask, me and Cas are fine.”

Benny looks at him, his eyes filled with kindness. “You don’t have to tell me anything. Just know you’ve got friends here if you need them.”

Dean appreciates it, he really does, but this isn’t like telling somebody you lost a job or got diagnosed with cancer. “Thanks. And tell the rest of the staff we’ll put things on hold for a bit.”

“We can still—“

“No, it’s fine.” Benny looks like he wants to say something else, but Dean gestures at his computer. “I need to get back to it.”

“Okay, boss.”

Dean watches him leave, then sits at his computer staring at the screen but seeing nothing. The emotions of the conversation swirl around inside him--embarrassment at not being able to hold it together, worry that everyone will find out his secret. He pushes those away and instead focuses on something that’s easier to stomach. He lets a seething rage course through him that his own employee would come in here and dress him down like this. The anger warms him, making a pleasant and surprising change from the anxiety and panic always just below the surface. It’s an old sensation, but one he used to experience a lot before he met Cas, one that would find him in bars drunk and starting fights. It would feel really fucking good to hit something right now, Dean thinks, his hands curling into fists. Before he can do something he regrets, he packs up his work bag and grabs his travel mug. Walking to the front, he avoids looking at Benny and only signals to Charlie that he’s heading over to the other location. 

In the car, he slams his hand against the steering wheel until his palm is stinging and the anger begins to subside. “Sorry,” he whispers then, running his thumb along the steering wheel in an attempt at a caress. All he’s doing is alienating the people around him, dragging them down into his shit. They don’t deserve that. His co-workers, his brother, Cas… Dean’s going off like a bomb in their nice, tidy lives, spraying them with shrapnel no matter what he does. 

He wants to drive off, keep heading west until he runs out of road, drive until he can disappear. He wants to go find a bar and drink until he can stop thinking. Taking a deep breath, he tries to will his body to relax. He won’t do any of those things because tonight is Henry’s spring band concert and he won’t ruin that. 

***

By the time the concert rolls around that evening, Dean has moved past the interaction with Benny. Still, sitting on the hard wooden bleachers in the elementary school gym, Dean wonders if he’s made the right decision by not hightailing it out of town. The kids sit on folding chairs on the gym floor, grouped by age. The 4th graders are the youngest and honestly, they’re terrible. The clarinets squeal and squeak, the trumpets blare, and when the “conductor” puts down his baton, it’s like watching the end of a foot race as a couple of kids continue to play, finishing the piece on their own time. 

Henry, like the other kids, is dressed nicely. The boys are all wearing polo shirts with the school name on it and slacks. The girls are in skirts and dresses. Overall, they seem more poised than the boys who fidget and fuss. Dean can see that Henry is doing his best to pay attention and watch the conductor, but he does whack his clarinet into the music stand when their piece is finished. The girl he’s sharing with rolls her eyes in the way only an aggrieved ten-year-old can before bending down to pick up the papers that have fanned across the floor. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean notices his brother’s shoulders shaking and he looks over to see him trying to hide his laughter with a hand pressed to his face. Next to him, Eileen is doing only a slightly better job of keeping it together. 

Dean elbows him. “What’s so funny?”

“Eileen just asked me if it was safe to turn on her hearing aids again.” 

At that, Dean snorts, loud enough that the people in the row ahead of him turn around. Dean doesn’t care what they think because who the hell holds up a whole ass giant iPad to film with. Still, he tries to turn it into a cough as Cas elbows him. “I’m never taking you people to the symphony again.”

Dean has to bite his tongue at that. “Promise?”

Cas holds out his phone, getting Sam’s attention as well. “I filmed that last song if you want to hear it back.”

Sam makes air quotes, mouthing the word “song”. 

Dean looks at his husband imploringly. “Please. Haven’t we been punished enough?” Cas gives Dean the tiny smile that’s mostly in his eyes and Dean warms to it. He leans close. “Send it to Bobby. I can’t believe he managed to get out of this.” 

They sit through the fifth and sixth grade performances as well, because apparently it’s rude to get up and leave when the one kid you came to see is finished playing. Dean thinks that etiquette probably applies to parents, but he’s pretty sure there should be special rules for uncles. At least the older kids are markedly better than Henry’s group. 

“Is it just me or are these kids good?” Cas murmurs in his ear.

“There was nowhere to go but up.” 

Cas smiles and bumps his knee against Dean’s. The outside doors are propped open but even so the auditorium is stuffy and hot from the late spring weather. A couple of people are fanning themselves with the programs which are just single sheets of paper with a list of songs and the names of the kids in the band printed on them. Dean may be talking shit here during the show, but he’s got his program carefully folded and tucked in his pocket to take home to put in his box filled with Henry’s mementos. He’s got school pictures in there, year after year of his nephew’s big, bright smile, light reflecting off his glasses. He’s still smaller than most of the other students in his grade, but he’s beginning to lose that little boy look and Dean sees hints sometimes, flashes of what he’s going to look like as a big kid. 

The concert ends with a standing ovation. Dean can’t decide if it’s due to actual support of the children’s musical endeavors or honest relief that it’s over and they can all finally get up from these cramped, uncomfortable bleachers. Probably both.

Freed from the gym, they stand in the hallway and wait for Henry to appear. Sam and Eileen chat with other parents and introduce Dean and Cas around. Finally, Henry comes out of the music room with his clarinet safely packed away in its case, and he runs over to meet them. 

“Ice cream,” he says first thing. 

Sam puts a hand to his ear. “What’s that? ‘Thanks everyone for coming to my concert’?”

“Thanks everyone for coming to my concert,” he says in a quick rush. “Now can we go get ice cream?”

“It’s a school night,” Eileen points out, but the look she exchanges with Sam tells Dean it’s happening. “Ask your uncles if they want to come, too.”

Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Henry turns to them. “Uncle Cas, Uncle Dean, do you wanna come get ice cream with us?”

Dean makes a face. “Ew. Nobody likes ice cream.”

Henry’s mouth falls open. “Everybody likes ice cream.”

Cas holds up his hand for a high five. “Don’t listen to your Uncle Dean. He’s wrong about so many things.”

“Wait,” Henry says accusingly. “We had ice cream at your house last time.”

“Of course we did,” Dean says. “Everybody likes ice cream.” Henry laughs and they make their way outside. “You wanna ride with us?”

“Yes. Here, Dad.” He turns back to thrust his clarinet case into his father’s hand. 

“Do you even need us there?” Sam asks. “Just bring him home after.”

Eileen fixes him with a look of outrage and uses a sign Dean doesn’t need ASL to know. _Fuck you._ “I didn’t break my butt on hard wooden bleachers all night to not get ice cream.”

Sam smiles and takes her hand. “We’ll see you there.” 

Henry chatters the entire drive, covering topics such as how he hates the pants he has to wear, how his stand partner is so bossy, and how he wonders if they’ll see any night toads. The sound is music to Dean’s ears. The kid is so innocent, so open to expressing himself. Dean knows it can’t last forever, but he hopes it goes on a little longer. 

Apparently they aren’t the only people to have this idea because there’s a line of families out the ice cream parlor door. Despite parental admonitions not to mess up their nice clothes, some of the kids are running and yelling and climbing on the low wall that borders the parking lot. 

“You wanna go play with the kids until we’re inside?” Sam asks Henry.

Henry gives the kids a long look. “I’m good.” 

It makes Dean’s heart sink a little, but Cas quickly changes the subject, talking to him about what books he should be bringing home the next time Henry comes over. With Henry distracted, Eileen steps over to Dean. “How’re you doing?”

It’s an innocent enough question, but they already greeted each other before the concert started and suddenly Dean can’t help but wonder if this is something more. He asked Sam not to say anything, but why else would Eileen be making a special point of checking in like this? He works his jaw for a moment. “All good. You?”

If he’s not mistaken, Eileen holds his gaze for an extra moment, like she’s trying to convey something meaningful to him. “Better now,” she finally says. 

Dean laughs but it feels a little hollow. “They’ve got to start somewhere, I guess.” 

“Music teachers are saints.” 

“Do you think that guy is home having a double martini about now?”

“He’s earned it, that’s for sure.”

Once they get their ice cream, they find a place to sit outside, where it’ll be easier for Eileen to hear. Henry’s is some brightly colored birthday cake flavored abomination that he eats with gusto. Dean eats his cone and tries not to be distracted by Cas licking at his. It doesn’t work and Cas gives him his best come hither look while letting his tongue slowly circle the ice cream. 

“Gross,” Sam says loudly and Henry picks his head up. 

“What is?”

Cas begins to eat demurely but there’s no hiding his smile. 

“Nothing you need to worry about for a long time,” Sam assures him and Dean’s stomach lurches. 

Getting to his feet, he walks off to the trash can further down the sidewalk where he tosses in the rest of his cone without even one last lick. 

When he comes back, Cas is looking at him. “You good?”

“Big dinner,” is all Dean says. Dean can’t stop watching Henry. There’s something so pure about him, so trusting and unworldly. He’s such a good kid, never had a question he hasn’t asked. He’s gentle and obedient. If anyone ever tried to hurt him, Dean would kill them with his bare hands. 

He thinks he’s doing alright, even as his anxiety begins to flutter in his chest. His brain is trying to touch on memories Dean doesn’t want to remember and he tries to surreptitiously slow his breathing because _not now for fucks sake_. Can he not have a nice evening with his family? His fingertips start to tingle and time starts to stretch out, that weird feeling where people are still speaking normally, but there seem to be long, drawn out periods of nothingness as he tries to compute what they’re saying and formulate a response. He thinks maybe Sam and Eileen are sharing a look but he’s so busy trying not to freak out that he can’t be sure. 

When they’re all finally through eating, Eileen prompts Henry to thank Dean and Cas again, and he steps over to hug them goodbye. Dean bends over to hug him, feels his bones as delicate as a bird’s, and the realization of how easily he could be contained and controlled and overpowered hits him like a freight train. He holds him more tightly, wanting to keep him safe, to keep him away from the ugly realities of life. He holds him until Cas puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“Dean?”

Henry is squirming in his arms. “Lemme go, Uncle Dean.”

Horrified, Dean immediately lets go of him and when he lifts his head, he feels tears streaming down his face. 

Sam steps forward. “Dean, what’s—“

“I’m fine,” he says gruffly, pulling away from Cas and rubbing at his face with his sleeve. Henry holds his mother’s hand, looking at Dean with big, frightened eyes. He’s never looked at Dean like that before. “Get him outta here,” he says to Sam. 

Henry watches over his shoulder even as Eileen begins to lead him away. He can see her talking to him as they retreat. When Dean looks away, Sam and Cas are talking quietly. There are so many emotions warring inside Dean right now. He wants to scream and hit something, or fall to the ground and cry, or puke up the ice cream that’s probably still cold in his stomach. His husband and brother both turn to look at him. Tears are still running down his face no matter how he tries to make them stop. 

“Dean,” Sam says, in a too-calm way that makes Dean feel even fucking crazier than he knows he already is. 

He has no idea what his brother is going to say next, but he knows he doesn’t want to hear it. “Do not, Sam.” It comes out louder than he intends and he sees a few of the other people still enjoying their ice cream look over at him. 

“Let’s head back to the car,” Cas says, and while his voice would generally soothe Dean, right now he doesn’t appreciate being spoken to like an unruly child. _A child._

Cas reaches for his arm and Dean yanks out of his touch. “I don’t need to be _handled._ ”

“We aren’t your enemy here,” Sam says, and there’s a pleading in his eyes that Dean hates to see. “I promise.”

“I’m not crazy,” Dean insists and that’s pretty fucking funny considering the fact that he feels like he’s going to fly into pieces trying to keep all of this contained. 

It’s Cas’s turn apparently. “Nobody is saying you—“

He nearly spits the single word. “Ten.” Dean remembers that clearly. How the excitement of being the big kid who got to stay up late and join his dad in the garage quickly soured. “I was ten when it started, okay?” 

Sam visibly flinches, while Cas’s face goes unbearably sad. And yeah, Dean should feel bad about that but right now all he feels is a smug _good_. They _should_ look like that. For all they’ve wanted him to open up and talk about it, it hasn’t escaped his notice that neither of them have asked that specific question. Ever since the memories have come back, he’s been carrying around this goddamn horror show and he’s fucking tired. 

“You tell me to talk about it but you should see your faces right now. It’s pretty fucking clear to me that you don’t really want to know.”

Cas shakes his head. “That’s not true, Dean.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam says softly. “I want to be there for you, but I don’t want to make it worse.”

Dean jerks his head in the direction of Sam’s car, where Eileen and Henry are still waiting. “Just keep him safe.”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Yeah, of course.” He and Cas share another long look. “I, uh, guess I’ll head out now.” He continues to stand there, and it isn’t until a family makes their way past them that the tension breaks. Sam runs a hand through his hair. “Thanks again for coming tonight. It meant a lot to Henry.”

Sure, Henry’s probably never going to want to see Dean again after this, and suddenly Dean is hit with a new realization, one that slices through him with the clean, sharp pain of a blade. “Sam,” His brother turns back, but Dean isn’t about to yell this down the sidewalk so he moves closer, his voice low. “Did I hurt him?”

“No,” Sam reassures him at once. “No, I think he was just caught off guard is all.” 

“I didn’t mean to scare him. Tell him I’m sorry.” 

“You can tell him yourself next time you see him.” Dean’s sure it won’t come up, but he appreciates the message Sam is sending here. They won’t keep Henry from Dean despite the fact that he’s a mess. 

It’s a kindness that cuts him deep and one he isn’t sure he deserves. 

***

“Do you want to talk about it?” Cas ventures when they’re home again. 

‘What’s there to say?” Dean says. “It happened and it fucked me up.”

Cas hesitates again and Dean knows he’s painted him into a corner unfairly with his statement. What’s Cas supposed to do? Lie and say he’s not fucked up? Agree that he’s a mess? It’s a no-win situation and Dean wishes he didn’t care. But Cas is trying so Dean sits down beside him on the edge of their bed and takes a deep breath. 

“He was nice at first.” Dean’s vision blurs a little as he remembers. “I used to like when he came around because he said nice stuff. He’d watch me work and tell me I was good at whatever I was doing. Told my dad he was lucky to have a smart son like me… he even would get on my dad if he yelled at me.” Dean shakes his head. “You know how when Henry was little and Sam and Eileen were practically _good job-_ ing him to death?” 

Cas nods, a tentative and fleeting smile on his face. “You thought they were making him soft.”

“Nobody ever told me I was doing a good job. My dad never appreciated all the things I did around the house. It was always reminders to take care of Sammy, like I wasn’t already doing that. I thought I never needed that sort of praise but now I remember how I ate that shit up.” It felt like a tiny piece of Dean was glowing deep inside when Alastair would compliment his attention to detail or ruffle his hair with his big hand. Some of his dad’s other friends were polite and friendly, but Alastair always tried to include him, even bringing him candy and other little treats. “It’s so obvious now,” Dean says. “I feel so stupid for not realizing.”

“You were a child,” Cas says. “He knew you wouldn’t understand.”

Dean believes that, but only to an extent. He wets his lips, his mouth gone dry. “I guess. Anyhow, he was nice until he wasn’t.” No way is he going to share the gory details with Cas. “I’d end up on my back on the work table staring up at the shop light until it was over.”

Even that is probably too much information because Cas goes rather stiff beside him, silence like a physical thing between them. “I guess that’s why…” he begins, searching for the right words. “I guess that’s why we do things the way we do.”

It takes Dean a second but then he gets it. He’s never wanted Cas on top of him while they’re fucking. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess so.” It’s messed up to think that something he couldn’t even remember has impacted their sex lives all these years.

“Sorry, I know that’s not the point,” Cas rushes to add. “That’s not… I’m just not sure what to say.”

“I get it. It’s too upsetting.” Try living in my head, he wants to say, but he keeps that to himself. “You didn’t sign up for this.” 

“I promised to love you through sickness and through health,” Cas says, voice steely. “Through good times and bad, and that’s what I intend to do.” 

Memories of their wedding day flash back to Dean, both of them smiling, the scent of gardenias from the boutonnieres they wore, delicate flowers crushing between them as they held each other close, dancing at the reception while friends and family cheered and smiled. “You didn’t know what you were getting into,” Dean says, sitting on the edge of their bed, the fight gone out of him. “Everything’s different now.” 

“It is,” Cas agrees and it makes Dean’s heart skip a beat. “But it doesn’t change _us_. I’ll admit it hurts me to hear about it. It makes me so angry and upset to think of you so frightened and in pain. Dean, you were so young.” At this, Cas’s shoulders begin to shake and his voice breaks off into a jagged sob. Dean waits to feel the emotion swell in his own chest and he prepares to swallow around the lump in his throat, the way he always does when Cas is hurting. He can probably count on one hand the times he’s seen Cas cry, but here he is sitting on their bed, his hand covering his face as he openly sobs. 

Dean puts an arm around him, feeling nothing but exhaustion and a surge of dismay. It’s better if he keeps this to himself. It’s bad enough that he has these memories, but putting them onto other people does nothing but upset them. He’s making everything worse. 

“I’m sorry.” Cas leans past Dean to grab a tissue from the night stand. “I guess that’s been building up since you first told me.” 

It crosses Dean’s mind that he hasn’t cried like that since the memories returned. He’ll feel that ache in his chest, feel tears stream down his face, but there’s something like a numbness that stops him, a tightness that clamps down before it reaches that point. Probably just another sign of how fucked up he is, how broken. 

He kisses Cas on the temple. “I’m sorry for upsetting you.” He thinks of Henry, wide-eyed and trying to escape his grasp. He has to do better. 

Cas rests his head on Dean’s shoulder. “I love you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for Dean beginning to panic/dissociate during a family get together. Dean tells Sam and Cas that he was ten when the abuse started. Brief discussion of Alastair grooming him and abusing him. 
> 
> This chapter came about in a funny way. I knew I wanted a scene with Dean interacting with Henry here but I hadn't figured out the how/where. Suddenly all my years of sitting in elementary school gyms listening to my kids play viola came back to me and I decided to give Dean that same, special experience. (And yes I am STILL mad about the person holding up that giant iPad.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end note for content warnings

A few days later, Cas suggests a date night. He gives Dean free rein to pick what they do and Dean chooses dinner at an Italian place they haven’t been to for a while. Cas lets him choose the movie, too, and while Dean sort of wants to roll his eyes at being so blatantly indulged, he readily decides on an action flick that looks good. Dean spends all day looking forward to it, getting through the usual household chores he does on the weekend with a little extra efficiency so he’ll be done before they go out. 

His husband looks very handsome, dressed in nice jeans and a deep blue button down. Dean tells him as much in the bathroom where they’re both still getting ready. “I know damn well you chose that shirt because it matches your eyes,” he says, around a mouthful of toothpaste.

Cas squints at him, but there’s a smile playing around his lips. “It’s not my fault if you find my looks distracting. I’m just working with what the good Lord gave me.”

Dean snorts so hard he nearly chokes on his toothbrush. He finishes brushing his teeth and says, “All those years you spent going to church, is that what you were doing? Saying thank you?”

Crowding him up against the counter, Cas raises one eyebrow. “I was praying to meet a hot guy.” 

“Bet Naomi loved that.” Relishing in the heat of his husband’s body, Dean goes pliant. He looks at him through lowered lashes. “Think you ever will?” 

Cas kisses him impossibly softly. “Jury’s still out.” 

Grinning, Dean says, “You’re an asshole.” 

“Yeah, but I’m your asshole.” 

When Cas turns away, Dean slaps his butt. “Take me out on the town.”

“As you wish.” Cas punctuates it with a sweeping bow. 

“Don’t pull that Princess Bride shit on me,” Dean says. “We’ve been through this. I’m not Buttercup.” He’s totally Buttercup and they both know it. 

***

“I can’t believe how long it’s been,” Dean says when they’re seated. “When’s the last time we were here?” They’ve got a cozy table in the back, near a window. The restaurant is a bit more upscale than the places they usually frequent and they tend to save it for special occasions. 

Cas considers. “We came for our anniversary. Was that two years ago already?”

“Wait. Wedding anniversary or dating anniversary?”

“You’re right. It was our dating anniversary.”

“Okay, so eighteen months. Still too long.” He scans the menu. “You wanna get a bottle of wine?” It’s not his usual go to, Cas being more of the wine drinker, but Cas is being so sweet about all of this that Dean’s willing to throw him a bone. Plus, somehow ordering three drinks looks bad but splitting a bottle of wine is _romantic_. 

“If that’s what you want.”

“I’m good with it.”

It’s nice to be here, out doing normal things like a normal person. Cas keeps looking at him so softly and Dean knows how lucky he is to have him. He lets Cas choose the wine and handle all the nonsense when the server comes back with the bottle. Dean smiles a little at how focused Cas looks as she shows him the label and pours him a taste. When Cas nods his approval, she pours them each a glass with a skilled hand, swirling the bottle to prevent drips. Dean leans in a little when she walks away again. “Wouldn’t it be funny to just do a fucking spit take when you try it?”

Cas smiles. “Not if I ever want to come back here again.” He raises his glass for a toast. 

“What are we celebrating?” Dean raises his as well. 

“I don’t know. Love?” He gives Dean a meaningful look. “Surviving? Just how lucky we are I guess.”

Dean feels a little flicker of guilt, but he pushes it down. “I’ll drink to that.” They touch glasses and Dean takes a long swallow of wine. It tastes… exactly like every other wine he’s ever had. Oh well, it’ll get the job done.

They go back to perusing the menu and, with his back to the rest of the dining room, Dean doesn’t see their server approach the table. He startles and manages to knock over his wine glass, the deep red spreading across the white tablecloth like a bloodstain. 

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she says smoothly. “Let me get something to clean that up.”

“Can’t take me anywhere.” Dean tries for a joke, but he can feel his jaw clench and his chest tighten. He’s felt so jumpy lately.

“It’s fine, Dean,” Cas assures him, but Dean knows it’s not. 

He thought she’d come back with a rag or something, but she returns with an entire fresh tablecloth and they both get to their feet so she can swap everything out. 

“Sorry,” he says to her. 

“Happens all the time.” She works quickly and efficiently and she doesn’t seem upset, but Dean is already mentally adding to her tip. 

They sit back down and order while Dean does his best to stay out of his own head. He wonders if the other people in the restaurant are watching them, waiting for him to fuck up again. He wonders if they can tell he’s the type of guy who shouldn’t be here. Maybe they wonder why Cas is out with him at all. Sighing, he realizes he’s wasted an entire glass of wine and he’s pretty sure he can’t get away with ordering something additional once the bottle is empty. 

He finds that he has his hands clenched together in his lap, so worried about startling again and knocking something else over as they wait for her to return with the food. 

“Dean, are you alright?” That soft, fond look has turned to concern and Dean could kick himself. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Only… could we switch places?” 

“Of course. Are you—“

Dean tries to make his mouth smile. “It’s either that or see if she’s willing to wear a bell around her neck.” It doesn’t make any sense, so he doesn’t even bother to explain it, but he feels vulnerable and exposed sitting here. 

“If you’ll be more comfortable, let’s switch.” They do, Cas resting his hand briefly on Dean’s waist as they navigate around the small table. “Better?”

Dean takes a big breath in. “Yeah, thanks.” He’s got his back to the wall now and nothing can sneak up on him. That feeling of control wars with the frustration of no longer being able to do anything the way he used to, but he tries to shove that away. He can’t let this bullshit ruin everything. He just needs to keep pushing through. 

It does help, though. Enough to get through dinner at least. He only manages about half his meal because his stomach is beginning to churn with anxiety as he finds himself back in that familiar place of trying not to freak out while wondering if everyone knows he’s trying not to freak out. But he smiles and asks to have the rest of his dinner wrapped up, blaming it on the richness of the food. When Cas goes to the bathroom, Dean resists the urge to order a shot of whiskey to toss back while he’s gone, so apparently he still has some control over his reactions. 

Sitting in the movie should be easier. A dark theater with nobody looking at him. A screen so big and a story so action-packed that he can’t possibly think about anything else. He picked the movie knowing full well it was a buddy cop sort of thing, but still he’s unprepared for the first sight of a police car speeding across the screen, skidding to a stop as two uniformed men get out, weapons drawn. He knows it’s just a movie, knows he’s perfectly safe sitting here holding Cas’s hand, but still he feels himself flinch at the sight. 

He grits his teeth. Sure, he could tell Cas he needs to get out of here and Cas wouldn’t hesitate to get up and leave, but he needs to prove to himself that he can do this. If he keeps running away every time he starts to freak out, he’ll never be able to leave his house again by the time he’s done. He loses the plot of the movie completely as his mind begins down a new path. He hates Alastair, of course he does, and when he can think about him for longer than a few seconds without panicking, he thinks about ways to kill him. But it’s one thing to think about that from the safety of his own home. What if he runs into Alastair somewhere? Would Alastair even recognize him? Does he even remember him? Has Dean seen him before the memories came back and not registered who he is? Dean’s met Sam at the courthouse for lunch plenty of times over the years, and there are always cops streaming in and out there. Dean feels a cold sweat begin between his shoulder blades. He’s only told Cas and Sam but what if word gets out that he remembers what happened? What if Sam says something to someone? What if it gets back to Alastair? He hadn’t been able to stop himself from opening up to Cas when he remembered, but maybe that has put Cas at risk now too. 

His selfishness is making things dangerous for everyone. 

***

Between this new concern over Alastair finding out and the reaction Cas had the night of Henry’s concert, Dean keeps things to himself after that. It’s clear to him that what he’s dealing with is exactly that: something _he_ needs to deal with. He’s sick of his brother checking in with him, dodging around the issue by asking vague questions. _How are you? No, really?_ He’s sick of Cas looking at him with those big sad eyes, like every time he looks at Dean what he’s really seeing is a small, hurt child. Mostly, though, he’s sick of himself. 

He’d managed to keep this out of his conscious memory for so long, but now there’s no putting the toothpaste back in the tube. He’s gone from blocking it out completely to being unable to think about anything else. Waves of memory are forever sneaking up on him like the tide coming in. Even when he’s not actively remembering anything new, the facts of his past continue to creep into his thoughts no matter what he’s doing. It’s impossible to work, to drive, to sleep. 

It’s with him all the time. Sometimes it’s pushed to a corner of his brain, allowing him to focus on other things for small bursts, but mostly it’s just under the surface, refusing to be ignored. It’s fucking exhausting to carry it around with him all the time. He’s always on edge, waiting for the panic to set in, waiting for some new, horrifying detail to emerge from the shitty slot machine that his psyche has become. He tries his stupid exercises but more often than not, he’s still teetering on the brink, hopeless and bone-weary. 

His brain is hemorrhaging the past and nothing seems to staunch the flow. Almost nothing, anyhow. Alcohol does a fine fucking job of taking the edge off.

More and more Dean finds himself leaving work early. It’s not hard, he’s the boss. He can lie and say he has a meeting or that he’s heading to whatever location he’s not currently at. He can say he’ll finish out the day working from home and nobody will question him. If he’s not mistaken, his employees all seem relieved to have him out of their hair anyhow. 

At first it’s maybe twenty extra minutes he gives himself. Just enough to come home and throw back a shot or two in peace and give it time to kick in before Cas gets home. Enough that he can act the part of a healthy, happy husband without too much effort. But that twenty minutes quickly evolves into coming home an hour early and from there, why not take most of the afternoon off? It’s peaceful to be home alone with no eyes on him, not having to worry if he’s going to lose his shit somewhere in public. After the way his dad died, Dean’s not about to risk anyone else’s safety, so really, he’s actually being _responsible_ to drink in the comfort and privacy of his own home. Plus, he’s found that the alcohol in his system sort of resets him, especially if he manages to take a nap, his alarm carefully set to have him awake and presentable before Cas pulls up, the one beer he lets Cas see him having still mostly full when he walks in the door. 

It’s not hurting anyone and Dean’s got it under control. He’s still getting his work done, even though it’s becoming more and more clear how much he doesn’t really do on any given day. Sure he’s started two businesses but the truth of the matter is that for the most part, his day to day work isn’t that essential. Or maybe he just doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. Not like he went to real school for this. Eventually someone will figure out what an imposter he is, but in the meantime he’ll take advantage of his free time. 

He’s not stupid. He knows he’s basically self-medicating and he’s not proud of the way he’s started getting cash back at the grocery store so that his liquor store purchases don’t show up on their credit card bill, but he tells himself it’s just temporary, something to get him through this initial period of remembering. With time, it’s bound to fade into the background again. He can’t quite convince himself of that, though, and it’s enough to have him stashing a few cheap bottles of vodka around the townhouse so that he can surreptitiously add a splash to his single beer can. He does worry about Cas finding out, but so far he’s pulling things off pretty well. 

Besides, Cas seems happy to think Dean’s doing fine, not questioning the reports of his day at work, not questioning anything Dean tells him. He’s tried a few more times to suggest Dean find someone to talk to, but Dean shoots the idea down, assuring him that he’s dealing with it. Each time Cas looks like he wants to say more, but Dean plays the “I’m just going through some shit right now” card and Cas, not wanting to upset him further, drops the subject.

It’s not like he wants Cas to press the issue, but at the same time, he can’t help feeling like Cas is biding his time, waiting for an acceptable window where he can leave with a clean conscience. Everything has changed and Cas was quick to agree to that fact, even if he tried to act like it didn’t matter. A few days after their date night, something new had occurred to Dean. Even though he’d committed to keeping things to himself, after lying awake for a long time after a nightmare, he’d brought it up when they were in the bathroom getting ready for work. 

“Cas, I swear I didn’t know.”

Cas stopped, his razor halfway to his face. “I know that, Dean.” He said it gently and carefully, like he couldn’t believe Dean needed this reassurance. 

“No, I don’t mean that.” Dean looked away. “I said you were my first. I honestly thought that was true.”

The sound Cas made was sharp and pained. “Dean, that doesn’t matter to me.”

“I’m just saying. I didn’t know.”

Cas stepped closer and put a hand to his chin, encouraging Dean to meet his eyes. “That wasn’t sex, Dean. That was abuse. It doesn’t somehow… count against you.”

Dean doesn’t believe him. Not when they’re scarcely having sex anymore, like Cas doesn’t want to touch him. Maybe Cas is afraid of hurting him further, maybe he can’t get past the sickening way Dean’s been tainted, either way, Dean feels it for the rejection it is. And why shouldn’t Cas change his mind? This new knowledge means he’s been duped. Dean is fundamentally different from the Dean Winchester Cas thought he was meeting all those years ago. He’s not the same person Cas dated and asked to marry. Dean feels like the life they’ve made together was built on supports made of sand, that everything they thought was true is shifting and lurching, eroding beneath them. 

So when Dean manages to find no reason to stay at work past lunchtime on a Tuesday, he comes home, telling Charlie he’s not feeling well. It’s not completely a lie. He’s exhausted, having been woken by yet another nightmare. As dawn approached, he’d finally fallen back asleep only to have a second one, worse this time because instead of seeing himself on the table, this time he saw Henry, saw himself standing over him like Alastair had. He’d woken with his stomach in knots, and the cold, low-key nausea hadn’t dissipated all morning.

It’s been just over a month since he first remembered what happened to him. He keeps waiting for things to begin to fade again, for the shock value of the realization to ease as time passes. Instead, what he has is a complicated formula to determine how much he can drink based on the time he has until Cas gets home. Today, with the whole afternoon stretching out in front of him and that shitty nightmare still hovering in his mind, he starts a little earlier and indulges a little more, the hot burn of the alcohol paradoxically settling his stomach. He’s got time for a nap, and yeah he has to squint one eye almost closed to carefully set his alarm, but he smiles at his phone when he’s done, dropping it onto the floor next to the couch as he flops heavily against the cushions and lets himself be pulled under into blissful nothingness. 

He’s woken by his husband’s voice. It’s a lovely way to wake up for the day, and it takes Dean a while to figure out what’s wrong. 

“Dean.” There’s an edge to Cas’s voice that tells Dean this isn’t the first time he’s called his name. When he cracks open one eye and then the other, Cas is standing at the foot of the couch, his hands on his hips. “Jesus Christ, Dean.” 

“I’m up,” he says, and pushes to sit. “I took a nap.”

“I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours.” 

Cas is pissed, no doubt about it. Dean goes into self-preservation mode, preying on his sympathies. “I was up half the night with shitty fucking nightmares, so sorry if I needed some rest.”

“A nap.” Cas pointedly looks at the mostly empty bottle of vodka and the glass on the coffee table.

 _Shit._ “Look—“

“I don’t want to hear it,” Cas snaps. “Do you even want to know why I’ve been trying to call you?” 

Dean swallows, but now he’s afraid of the answer so he simply looks at Cas and waits for more. 

“Your nephew,” Cas begins, his voice cold with anger, and Dean’s stomach is right back where it started. “Henry got sick at school and needed someone to pick him up. Sam was in court and Eileen was an hour away at a meeting.” 

Dean scrambles to sit up. “Is he okay? Where is he?” 

“I went and got him, took him home and stayed with him until Eileen could get back. He’s fine, but nobody knew where you were and—“ his voice cracks and Dean gets to his feet, regret coursing through him. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, reaching for Cas, but Cas pulls away. 

“I can’t keep doing this,” Cas says, his voice like steel. “The lying, the drinking. Do you think I’m stupid? I tried to give you some time, hoping you’d come to your senses about what you need, but it’s only getting worse.”

“Cas, I—“ 

“You aren’t just hurting yourself, Dean. I go through every fucking day so worried about you. And today Henry had to spend half the afternoon sick and alone in the school office because—“ he gestures to the bottle again, looking away from Dean like he can’t bear the sight of him.

Dean feels a cold, bone-chilling fear like he hasn’t felt in years. He’s pushed his luck, stretching it so taut that it’s about to snap back on him with the force of a trebuchet. He can’t lose Cas, can’t lose Henry. “What do you want me to do, Cas? I’ll do anything.” 

At last Cas meets his eye. “I found a therapist who specializes in recovered memories. I’m making you an appointment.” 

It’s not a question, but Dean nods his agreement anyhow. 

***

They reach an uneasy truce, Dean pulling it together to be on his best behavior. Cas tells him he’s getting rid of all the alcohol in the house and Dean silently retrieves his stash of bottles and dumps them down the drain as Cas watches. Knowing how booked out the other therapists were, Dean feels like he’s got some breathing room, time to try and get back in Cas’s good graces and help him to see that he can do this on his own. With some time, he can convince Cas that this was one misstep. A big one, sure, but an isolated one. 

Somehow, though, Cas manages to wrangle an appointment the following week. When he tells Dean the date and time--tells, doesn’t ask--Dean finds the cold dread of losing Cas replaced by anger and resentment. It’s too soon. And too much to ask of Dean.

He knows he can’t go on the way he has been with the drinking, lying, and arguing, but Cas doesn’t understand how hard this is. Yes, something needs to change, but why does Cas assume he knows what’s best? Where does he get off basically giving Dean an ultimatum? Dean never claimed to be perfect, so maybe Cas could cut him some fucking slack. Nobody understands what he’s dealing with. Cas had been so unfair and unrelenting, saying something needed to change. He couldn’t say what he really meant: _Dean_ needs to change. 

The morning of the appointment, Cas insists on driving him and he parks the car so that he can accompany Dean inside. The lack of trust rankles Dean, especially added on top of the guilt at knowing Cas had to take time off work to be here. He ignores the fact that Cas is right not to trust him. If Cas hadn’t insisted on physically accompanying him, Dean’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be here.

Dean knows he’s being a dick but can’t resist another jab as they get out of the car. “You wanna just put me on a leash?” 

Cas looks weary but all he says is, “I’m not going to fight with you on this.”

Dean mutters under his breath but he doesn’t outright argue back. He’s tired of dragging everyone he loves down into the mud with him. It’s only a matter of time before they let go of his hand, especially when he can’t even find it in himself to act grateful for their attempts at kindness. 

In the waiting room, Cas immediately takes a seat in a hard-backed chair and begins to flip aimlessly through a magazine. Dean wants to pace but Jesus, it’s bad enough he’s here, maybe he shouldn’t do everything in his power to make it obvious which one of them is in need of having their head shrunk. Grudgingly, he sits down next to Cas. Part of him wants to lean into Cas, smell his shampoo, and feel his warmth and nearness. Even more than that he wants Cas to put a reassuring arm around him, but Dean’s spent so much time pushing him away that he knows that won’t be happening. It doesn’t escape Dean’s notice that it’s completely within his abilities to apologize for being such an asshole lately, to reach for Cas’s hand himself, but he can’t make himself do it. It feels like a tiny fissure that will lead him to crack wide open. 

A woman opens the door at precisely eleven o’clock and they both swivel their heads in unison to look at her. “Dean Winchester?” She looks to be about Dean’s age and in any other circumstance Dean would register that she’s an absolute knockout. Her face is carefully composed as she waits for Dean to identify himself.

Dean doesn’t look back at Cas as he reluctantly gets to his feet and walks through the door she’s holding open. The office is small, not even as big as the waiting area. There’s a desk with a computer, a couple of chairs, and a small loveseat. A coffee table sits in front of the little couch, a box of tissues the only thing on it. 

“I’m Billie,” she says. “I’d say it’s nice to meet you but a lot of people don’t really feel that way by the time they get here.”

He takes her offered hand. “Dean.”

“Please have a seat,” she tells him, gesturing to the loveseat.

He could turn and walk right back out again. Head straight through the waiting room and out of the building. Keep going until he hits the parking lot. It’s sounding pretty damn appealing until he remembers he doesn’t have his car. Picturing the disappointed look on Cas’s face, he makes his feet move and lowers himself rigidly onto the loveseat. 

Once he’s settled, she sits, too, on a chair across from him. She starts to say something but Dean interrupts her. “I don’t want to be here.”

He’s not sure what he expected her to do in response, but the small smile that creeps across her face definitely isn’t it. “That’s pretty clear. This wasn’t your idea, then?”

He works his jaw for a moment. “Not really.” 

“It seems like somebody in your life must care enough about you to want you here.”

“More like everyone is fucking sick of me.”

She doesn’t bat an eye at his profanity. “We can certainly talk some more about that, but let’s take a step back for a moment.” When he doesn’t respond, she continues. “You don’t know me. You have no reason to trust me. From what little I know about you from when the appointment was made, you’ve dealt with some significant trauma. Coming here at all—whether it was up to you or not—is a huge step.” 

Dean’s not sure where she’s going with this. It could all be a trick, so he’s careful not even to nod in agreement. 

“I want to make some things clear right here at the outset. I’m not here to push you into talking about things you don’t want to. This isn’t some sort of… pressure chamber where I’m going to ask you to relive your worst experiences. You’ll be the one to lead what we discuss and when. Honestly, my first goal is to get you to feel safe here in this space. Then we can see what happens from there. How does that sound to you?”

Dean didn’t even realize he’d been worried that she was going to force him into some sort of intense catharsis until she makes this clear. It still might be a trap, but he feels himself uncoil a tiny bit. “Okay, I guess.” Even to his own ears, he sounds like a petulant child, but she doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Today I’d like to get to know you a little bit. Get an idea of who you are right now today, find out who the important people in your life are. It may seem like a lot of basic information but it helps to put Dean Winchester into a larger context.” 

That doesn’t sound too awful, but he remembers how his last attempt at therapy went. “And if I say no?” He looks up from where he’s staring at his clenched fists in his lap. 

She shrugs a shoulder lightly. “Then we sit in silence. It’s up to you. Tell you what. If we touch on something you don’t want to talk about, just lift your hand like this.” She demonstrates raising it up. “No words needed. We’ll regroup and change course. In fact, if you start to feel anxious or uncomfortable for any reason at any time, lift your hand and we’ll stop and address it. We can do breathing or relaxation exercises or whatever it takes until you feel comfortable again.”

Dean nods. “I’ve done some of those,” he admits.

She smiles. “Great. So you know what signals your body sends you.”

“I guess.”

“Okay, ready to start? Remember you’re the one in charge here.”

He doesn’t answer right away and they sit there for a long while as he considers. He’s not sure he’s ready, but he doesn’t really have any good reason against it that he can articulate. He’s sort of curious about what she’ll do if he says no, if she’ll just sit there with her notepad in her lap watching him, but ultimately it’s the fact that she’s given him the option of saying no that allows him to say yes. 

She starts easily enough, asking about his job. “I started out as a mechanic but now I own two repair shops in town.” He wonders if she’s familiar with them, can’t decide how weird it would be if she says she’s been to one of them, but she merely nods and encourages him to keep talking. “I never went to college but I took some classes on business management at the community college to learn the basics.”

“So, you did go to college.”

“Not real college,” he clarifies. 

“What do you consider real college?”

“Like, my brother. He went to Stanford and then to law school.”

“He sounds very accomplished.” 

“Damn right he is.” Dean wonders if he’ll ever stop being proud of the way that string bean of a kid turned out. 

“How would you describe your relationship with your brother?”

It almost makes Dean smile that anyone would need to ask that. “It’s good. He lives here in town and I see him and his family all the time.”

“Who makes up his family?”

“His wife, Eileen, and their son Henry.”

She nods. “Any other siblings?”

“No.” 

“How about your parents? Are they around?”

“Both dead.” Dean waits, heart pounding, but Billie just makes a note and moves on. 

“And what about you? Are you married?”

Dean tips his head toward the door. “That’s my husband out there. Cas.”

He doesn’t really expect her to judge him for having a husband but it’s nice when not even the smallest look of surprise crosses her face. “And how long have you two been married?” 

“Fourteen years.”

“Not newlyweds then,” she says with a smile. 

Dean can’t help it, he smiles back. “Hardly.”

“And how would you characterize your relationship with Cas?”

Dean runs a hand over his mouth. “In general, it’s great. Lately, though, it’s been a little rough.”

“You mentioned earlier you felt like people were sick of you.”

“I… I haven’t been the easiest to live with lately.” 

“It sounds like maybe your husband is the reason you’re here.”

“Yeah. No. I don’t know.” Dean sighs. “Something needs to change.”

“But you’re the only one sitting in here.”

“Yeah.”

“That might feel a bit unfair.”

Dean shakes his head. “No. It’s not. He’s been going along just like he always has. I’m the one who drove us into a tree.”

“Are you speaking metaphorically or…?”

Dean looks at her, offended. “I would never risk my car like that.”

“Your husband, but not your car?”

Dean opens his mouth but he sees a glint of humor in Billie’s eye and he sits back against the cushions a bit. “Neither one of them.”

She nods. “From everything you’re telling me, it sounds like what’s happening now is pretty unusual for your marriage. Generally, you’re on the same team, so to speak.”

“Definitely,” Dean says, unable to resist the smallest of smirks. 

“Okay. Do the two of you have children?”

“No. We’re really close to our nephew, though.”

She checks her notes. “Henry.”

“Yes.”

“How old is he?”

“Almost ten.” As soon as he says it, he feels a wave of anxiety rippling from the center of his chest. This is it, they’re going to have to talk about the real reason he’s here. 

“Tell me about Henry.”

He hears her from a distance as his hands begin to tingle. What feels like an eternity passes before he can respond, and at the very last second he remembers and lifts his hand. 

“Okay,” she says smoothly. “Tell me what’s happening right now.”

Dean takes a shuddering breath and lays a hand on his chest. 

“Some anxiety?” 

He nods. 

“Let’s do a little breathing together, okay, Dean? In through your nose.” She walks him through a breathing exercise. It’s a little different from the one he’s done before but it does the trick, and before too long, he’s able to get to the other side of it. 

“Sorry,” he says automatically. “I’m better now.” 

“No need to apologize. That’s your body reacting to stress and it’s really important to listen to what it’s telling you. You did well to recognize it and let me know.”

Dean snorts. “Oh yeah, I can flip out with the best of them.” 

“Let’s talk about what it feels like for you when that happens.”

Dean gets to his feet and paces around the small office as best he can. “I fucking hate it. Like, I can feel it begin and then I know I’m just at it’s goddamn mercy for a while.”

“You mentioned a tightening in your chest.”

“More like a flutter. Like, it almost feels good, you know? Like when you swoop down a big hill on a roller coaster? But then it doesn’t stop.”

She nods. “That’s an adrenaline response.”

“Yeah, well, I’m over it.”

“Some people feel like everything gets real far away when that happens. Noises, sights.”

Dean turns to look at her. “Yeah. Like things sort of slow down.”

“Do you ever feel like you’re almost outside of yourself watching what’s happening?” Dean stops pacing and nods slowly because that’s one of the things that makes him feel like the cherry on a crazy sundae. “I ask because it’s not uncommon for people who have recovered memories to experience a type of anxiety response called dissociation. Let’s talk a little bit about that and how it feels.”

Dean sits back down. 

“You’re familiar with the concept of fight or flight?”

“Sure.”

“They’re ways for your body to respond to a perceived threat. You see a car slam on its brakes in front of you and you slam on yours. Or”—she thinks for a moment—“You’re at a baseball game and a foul ball comes your way and without even thinking about it, you put your hand up to shield your face. These things happen instinctively. The adrenaline rush in these cases makes you react without even thinking about it.”

“Okay.” Dean tries not to sound impatient but this is shit he already knows.

“There’s a third response, too, that people sometimes forget about. That one is to freeze.” 

Dean thinks about how he felt in the dentist chair when the dentist leaned over him. And the dreams he tried to attribute to sleep paralysis. But fuck if he’s going to talk about that right now, so he doesn’t answer at all. 

Billie doesn’t appear to be dissuaded by his lack of response. “Sometimes fight or flight aren’t available options.” She gives Dean a moment to take that in. “If you can’t fight your way out of a situation or physically remove yourself from it, you may find yourself frozen in place no matter how much you don’t want to be there. Does that make sense?”

“I guess.” Dean thinks for a moment. “I sorta thought those were the only two responses.”

“A lot of people think that, especially because fight or flight works for them in most situations. 

“Okay.”

“Now imagine a situation where there’s literally nowhere for you to run and no way to fight back. Maybe you’re trapped somewhere.” She pauses. “Maybe you’re a child.”

Dean doesn’t say a word. 

“In these instances, your brain has to find another way to cope. Sometimes it will try to disconnect you from the threat, as a protective force. Dissociation isn’t some sort of cop out or a sign of weakness. It’s the brain protecting itself when it has no other options. And when you’ve dealt with trauma, anxiety and dissociation can continue to happen even when you’re perfectly safe.” 

Heaving out a heavy sigh, Dean does the math. “So, I’m stuck with it.”

Billie’s eyes soften. “There are many, many techniques for dealing with it and the fact that you recognize when it’s starting gives you a lot of opportunities for managing it. Actually, how would you feel about practicing some of them here before your session ends?”

When he agrees, she quickly turns to her computer to print out a few pages, then staples them together and passes them to Dean. 

“Now, some of these you will hate on sight and that’s fine.”

Dean jabs a finger at the paper. “I’m not having a dance party.”

She smiles. “Glad to see we’re ruling things out. That’ll help you narrow in on ones to try.”

Dean can feel his forehead crease as he continues to read down the list. 

“Are you noticing anything they have in common?”

There should be a nicer way to say this, but Dean doesn’t know what it is. Hold ice, sit with your pet, light a scented candle. “They’re all kind of dumb? 

Billie outright laughs at that and her reaction is honest enough that it makes Dean smile a little. “That’s one way to look at it.” 

“Like, simplistic, I guess?”

“Exactly. These actions are basic and straightforward. The whole idea behind them is to help ground you by taking part in activities where you interact with the world around you. So you’ll see they tend to involve using your five senses.”

“Oh. That makes sense.”

“What three look reasonable to you?”

Before the session ends, Dean practices a few of the techniques. He names all the blue things he can see in Billie’s office. He snaps a rubber band against his wrist. He runs his hands over the texture of the cushion he’s sitting on. He feels stupid as shit. “I’m sorry but are these really going to do anything?” 

“Like you said, they’re fairly simplistic. That’s on purpose. What helps is having some you’ve thought about ahead of time so that when you start to dissociate, you’re not starting from scratch, scrambling for something to help.” She furrows her brow for a moment. “You work with cars. I imagine it’s a lot easier to tackle an engine or a transmission issue when you’ve got the proper tools on hand. Think of this as building a toolkit.”

Dean pictures Henry at dinner a few weeks back, with his mini box of crayons and coloring sheet. He imagines himself with a kid-sized backpack full of rubber bands and minty gum and shit. “Am I supposed to like, carry these things around with me?”

Billie shrugs. “You can, if that helps. Most of these things are common items you can keep stashed in a desk drawer or your car. Many of them require nothing but the chair you’re sitting on or the view in whatever room you’re in.”

That sounds better. “Okay.”

“How would you feel about sharing some of these with your husband so that you’re both armed with how to help when this happens?”

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Dean nods. “I could do that.” 

Billie checks the clock on the edge of the desk. “That’s just about our time for today. I’m really glad you came in. How are you feeling about coming back again next week?” 

“It’s on the calendar,” Dean says, even though he knows it’s a bit of non-answer. Nonetheless, Billie seems to understand exactly what he’s saying and her smile broadens as she gets to her feet.

“I’ll see you next week.”

Cas looks up warily as Dean steps out of the office and while Dean doesn’t necessarily feel better, he feels somewhat lighter. He’s hit with a wave of love for this man, paired with a flicker of guilt for how much he’s been putting him through. 

“Hey,” Dean says. 

“Ready to go?”

“Yeah.” He can feel the unanswered questions the whole way out to the parking lot, but he’s grateful that Cas doesn’t talk about anything other than where they might grab some lunch. When they’re safely ensconced in Cas’s car, Cas turns to look at him. 

“That… wasn’t exactly what I expected,” Dean admits. 

“In a good way or a bad way?”

“I think I thought she was going to force me to talk about everything but it wasn’t like that.”

“That sounds promising,” Cas says, but his body is still a line of tension. 

“She gave me some things to try when I get stressed. They’re super fucking dumb but I guess they’re supposed to help.” Cas smiles at that. “She said I should go over them with you so you know as well.”

“I’d be honored.”

“And I’m going back next week,” Dean mutters as Cas starts the car.

“What’s that?”

“I’m going back next week.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for Dean getting triggered by seeing cops in a movie, self-medication with alcohol, and discussions of anxiety--particularly dissociation. 
> 
> My facebook memory this morning is of the last fun social thing I did before quarantine started and well, the knowledge that a year has past has just sort of hit me like a ton of bricks. Tell me, what coping mechanisms have gotten you through this past year? My go to has been jigsaw puzzles, but I've recently joined a local Buy Nothing group on fb and that's been pretty fun. Oh, and in January I started 30 day yoga challenge that now has become part of my daily routine!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end note for content warnings.

Dean takes himself to the next session. It’s not like he’s raring to go back, and he’ll admit that he considers continuing right past the building and taking the Impala for a long drive out of the city instead, but he dutifully pulls into a spot and sits in the car for a few minutes, gearing himself up. This time when he goes into the waiting room, there’s another person sitting there. A young woman, head down, looking at her phone. It throws Dean off a little bit. What if he sees someone he knows? He’d been so wrapped up in his own shit last week that he hadn’t really registered that two other therapists share this office space. Of course there are bound to be other people in the waiting room. He tries to remind himself that there's no shame in being here, but still he’s glad when Billie opens her office door and merely smiles a welcome at him without actually calling his name.

He sits on the loveseat again and Billie settles into her chair. They spend a few minutes making small talk before Billie switches gears. “So, last week we talked about dissociation and you chose three techniques for combating it when it occurs. How did that go for you?”

“You mean did I do my homework?”

“We can call it that if you like.” When Dean doesn’t respond, she asks, “Did you have occasion to use any of the techniques?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “More than one but like a dumbass I only remembered the last time.”

“This is all new, so no need to beat yourself up. What’s important is that you remembered you had this tool and put it to work for you.” She waits for Dean to begrudgingly agree to that. “Which one did you use?”

“The texture one.” Dean had been sitting in his car, ready to pull out of the lot at work when two police cars had gone speeding by, sirens screaming. He’d immediately felt the onset of panic, unable to move. It felt worse because he was alone in the car and even though people he knew and trusted were only steps away inside the building, he couldn’t imagine walking back in there and trying to explain what was wrong.

“Okay, let’s talk about what brought that on.”

“I, uh, saw some cops cars go by and started to lose it.” He knows Cas told her when he made the appointment that there was sexual abuse in his past, but Dean’s not sure he’s ready to talk about particulars.

“What do you mean when you say losing it? Can you be specific about what you felt?”

Dean thinks back and tries to put it into words. “I was startled by the sirens and I think that was enough to set off my fight or flight response. My hands did that weird tingling thing and my vision kinda started to tunnel.”

“Were you driving at the time?”

“Nah, I was parked in the lot at my work.”

“Okay. It sounds like you have a pretty good handle on recognizing the physical response.”

“I guess so.”

“What happened next?”

Even remembering the panic that gripped him sucks, so he tries to delay a little. “I would’ve done the color one but there really wasn’t anything blue in my car.”

“You could always choose any color you want to name, but it sounds like you made a smart decision for yourself. What textures were there?”

Without meaning to, Dean realizes he’s rubbing his fingertips together. “The steering wheel, the stitching on the seats, the window.” He’d even lifted his arm to run his fingers along the inside of the roof. “I must’ve looked like an idiot out there caressing my car.”

“How did you feel afterwards?”

“Better,” he admits. “Less out of control, I guess.” He considers for another moment. “Mad that it worked.”

Billie smiles. “Tell me more about that.”

“Just like… it’s so dumb? Breathe slowly, touch some leather. If I’d been doing that all this time would I even be here?”

“What do you think?”

Dean twists his fingers in his lap. “I don’t know. It just seems stupid that something so small helps.”

“Sometimes people think big problems require big solutions. Now, I’m not trying to downplay anything you’ve experienced, but it turns out that often—regardless of the source of the trauma—the response shows itself in really predictable ways.” She holds up fingers as she lists them. “Panic attacks, anxiety, depression, flashbacks, dissociation. To process the trauma, you need to feel safe. Dealing with these symptoms is the first step in doing that.”

Dean takes that in. The idea of processing the trauma sounds fucking awful. “What if I don’t want to?”

“Again, you lead the way here.” She doesn’t sound irritated in having to remind him of that. “You mentioned last week how much you hate the out of control feeling that the panic and dissociation cause.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Are there people who enjoy it?”

Billie ignores that. “Understanding the connection between your body’s responses and your trauma is what allows you to make use of these techniques and—like you said—give you some control over them.” That makes sense, Dean guesses. He’s still pondering it when she continues. “Now, was it the act of being startled that did it? Or something more specific to the situation?”

Yeah, well, no wonder she’s getting paid the big bucks, Dean thinks. She’s good at this. “So…” he finds he can’t look at her and goes silent for long enough that he gets self-conscious about it. Nonetheless he doesn’t feel any sort of judgement or impatience coming off of her so he chances a look at her face. “I…”

She must realize how hopeless he is then. “These things can be hard to talk about. How about we do a couple of breathing exercises together and then try again.”

Mouth clamped shut against the words, Dean merely nods. There’s a throw pillow on the little couch and, nervously, Dean picks it up and holds it in his lap. It’s dumb, but it feels like it’s providing him with some small measure of protection. The edges of the pillow are sewn together with some sort of braided material and without even thinking about it, he runs his fingers along the edge again and again.

Billie talks him through some deep breaths taken in, held, and then slowly released. Dean feels comfortable enough to close his eyes as they do it, the pillow and her voice anchoring him. When he opens his eyes again, he feels more settled. He sees her start to say something but the need to get this out as fast as he can overtakes him. “The abuse happened starting when I was ten. It was a friend of my dad’s. A cop. It went on for years but I guess it fucked me up so badly that I blocked it out until just recently. So, uh, yeah the police car is what set me off.”

Billie’s brown eyes are warm, but not with pity. “I am so sorry that happened to you, Dean. Nobody deserves something like that.” Even though Cas has said it, and Sam, too, it feels different coming from Billie. Like it carries more weight somehow. Something deep inside Dean believes it just the tiniest bit.

Nonetheless, Dean feels his old walls starting to slide into place. “Yeah, well. Can’t change the past, so…”

“That’s true,” she agrees. “What happened is always just that… what happened. What we aim to do here is help you find ways to deal with it.”

Something occurs to him then. “You believe me?”

She shrugs a little. “I have no reason not to.”

“Okay, but how do I know I’m not just crazy? What if I’m making this whole thing up?” There’s a small part of him that still wants it not to be real. Part of him that almost wishes he could go back to worrying about something more straightforward, like the brain tumor that had him quaking in his boots.

“False memories are exceedingly rare, but it seems like you’re worried about that.”

Dean can’t help but feel that isn’t an answer. “Yeah, but do you think I’m crazy?”

“I think you’re struggling with something extremely difficult.”

“That may or may not all be in my head.”

“That’s where we keep our brains, so…”

She’s trying to keep the tone light, but Dean’s not having it. “You didn’t answer me. What if I’m making this all up?”

“Do you think you are?”

“No.” At his core, he knows without a shadow of a doubt that he’s not. “I know it happened. I know it did. But it’s not like I can prove it.”

“Tell me, what would it change if you could?”

“I’d know I wasn’t crazy.”

“Would that make the abuse easier for you to deal with?”

He thinks. “Maybe? I don’t know.”

They sit in silence for a moment. “You said you only began to remember recently. Was that when the panic attacks started?”

Dean thinks back to the first panic attack. “The first one came on a few months ago, out of the blue. Well, at the time it seemed out of the blue.” He stops, considering. “Wait. I kind of freaked out at the dentist before that.”

“Freaked out how?”

“I don’t like the dentist as it is, but I was doing okay until the guy leaned over me and then it’s like I was paralyzed. I remember just staring at that light.” He blinks at her. “I guess I was disocciating but I didn’t realize it.”

“That must have been extremely upsetting for you.”

“I didn’t say anything, like I didn’t tell them to stop. I just finished out the appointment like nothing was wrong and then I puked in the parking lot after. Is that what started all this? Going to the dentist?”

“For some people there are clear triggers. A sight or a sound that takes them back to the trauma. Smell can be a really big one. Sometimes there isn’t such a clear cut connection between the two, but when your brain decides you’re not safe, your body will respond.”

Dean runs a hand through his hair. “Responding to something I couldn’t even remember?”

“Yeah,” Billie says. “That tracks.”

Dean sits forward. “It does?”

“Here’s the thing about trauma: your body remembers it. Are you familiar with PTSD?”

“Sure,” Dean says. “Soldiers get that.”

“You do hear a lot about it with regard to the military but _anyone_ who has experienced trauma can get it. A car accident can set it off. A medical scare. Living through a natural disaster. Anything that causes stress your coping mechanisms can’t handle—even something with a happy ending—can lead to post traumatic stress. Let’s say a loved one got sick, had a heart attack or something, but then fully recovered. Despite that, things that remind you of that time can cause you to, as you like to say, ‘freak out’ even though you and your loved one are both safe. Can you think of some things that might set a person off in a situation like that?”

“What, like driving past the hospital where they were?”

“Absolutely,” Billie says. “Maybe watching a tv show where a character experiences something similar. Or seeing an ambulance go by.”

Dean feels his vision begin to unfocus and he clenches the throw pillow more tighty. “It was the light. At the dentist, that’s what set me off.” She gives him the briefest of nods, her face betraying nothing. “In the garage where I was… abused, there was a single light. Like one of those shop lights? That you clip on places?” He’d mentioned it to Cas before in a nearly offhand manner, but for the first time he lets his focus linger on it instead of pushing the thought immediately away. Dean remembers staring at that light because he couldn’t see anything else when he did. He could pretend the tears streaming down his face were solely from the unrelenting brightness in his eyes. He’s barely even blinking as he remembers, suddenly feeling the scrape of rough wood underneath him, abrasions to add to the bruising of being pressed against the work table.

“Dean.” He hears his name from afar. “Dean, let’s practice your breathing. Try it with me. Breathe in slowly through your nose for the count of four.”

He hears her voice for a while without really registering what she’s saying but eventually he’s able to follow her cues, and he finds himself taking in increasingly deeper breaths until he’s back in control. Even so, he’s shaking, cold sweat dripping between his shoulder blades.

“There you go, good job,” she says, voice soothing. “That shaking is the adrenaline leaving your system again. How are you feeling?”

Dean can’t even look at her. “I was so scared.” His voice is tiny, small enough that he’s embarrassed by it. “I was so scared all the time.” He feels himself trembling, and a detached part of him wonders if this is when he’s finally going to cry.

“I’m so sorry that happened. You deserved to be protected and safe.”

He doesn’t answer, though, still blinking himself back to the present as that familiar tightness encircles his chest, like that’s what’s holding him together. He doesn’t like it, though. If this is what therapy is all about, he’s not a fan. Sure, he made a connection and that’s probably important but he feels raw and vulnerable in a whole new way. He didn’t feel great when he came in here, but his heart is still pounding from remembering what it felt like to be there in that garage with Alastair and what’s the point of doing this if he’s going to get _worse_? He thought talking about it was supposed to make him feel better, help him move on and move past it so he can get back to his regular life.

Intellectually, he knows these are all things he should be talking about--oh, sorry _processing_ \--with Billie, but he feels himself shutting down instead, choosing to deal with things in his preferred way which is not at all. She’d said he could lead that way the sessions go and he does. Not by telling her things are moving too fast, not by asking her to take a few steps back until he feels ready to try again, but by sitting there, withdrawn into himself, managing one or two word responses as she tries to get the conversation going again.

Eventually she glances at the clock before saying, “We have a little bit of time left. We could use it to go through a few more breathing and grounding exercises before you leave.”

Without meeting her eyes, Dean shakes his head. “Nope, I’m good.”

She fixes him with a serious look. “This is hard work, Dean. Hard and painful, but ultimately rewarding. I’m here to help you work through it, but please don’t underestimate the toll it will take on you as we go through this process.”

 _We_ , he thinks with disdain, and it’s all he can do not to scoff. She’s sitting comfortably in her office trying to get rid of him.

“Be gentle with yourself. Rest, drink plenty of water, take advantage of the supports and tools you have.”

Jesus Christ, like anyone can make up for years of being raped with adequate fucking _hydration_. He doesn’t say that, though, he only nods and gets to his feet.

“Take care and I’ll see you next week.”

***

“How’d it go today?” Cas asks, after kissing him hello. Dean knows it’s ostensibly about work but Cas is damn well aware it’s therapy day.

Even with a full afternoon of work between the session and now, Dean’s jaw is pretty much clenched as he answers. “Great. Never better. Can’t get enough.”

Cas sits beside him. “That good, huh?”

“Yeah, I love remembering shit that should’ve stayed long-buried. If this is _progress_ I don’t want it.”

“I can’t imagine how hard this is for you. I’m so proud of you, though, and I’m here for whatever you need.”

“I need a new fucking brain. You got one of those for me?”

“I wish I could do that for you.”

What Dean could really use right now is a fucking drink, but he and Cas have cleared all of the alcohol out of the house, and Cas had made clear he intends to keep it that way. At the time it had felt right for Dean to unearth his stash, like he was proving to his husband that he could be trusted. Now, he tries not to feel resentful of having yet another thing taken away from him.

Overall, though, he and Cas are in a better place and, as wound up as he is right now, Dean has to admit that more than makes up for it. He lets out a long breath. “Maybe you can make it up to me in other ways,” Dean says, looking up at Cas through his lashes.

Cas smiles. “I can do that.”

That night when they get into bed, Cas pushes up on one elbow to smile at Dean. “You want me to rub your back?”

That would feel nice but Dean’s pretty sure he made himself clear earlier. “Nah, man, I wanna suck your dick.”

A look of surprise goes across Cas’s face, there and gone in an instant. “I’ll never say no to that,” he begins, putting a hand to Dean’s cheek. “But we’re in no rush.”

“I’ve got great news for you,” Dean says, trying to keep his voice light. “We are well past the point of you having to seduce me.”

“No, I know--”

Dean interrupts him with a kiss, then pulls back to look him in the eye. “I know what I want.” He reaches for Cas’s hand and rests it where Dean’s arousal is becoming obvious.

Cas raises an eyebrow at that. “I’d say.” He rolls away for a moment to switch off the bedside light before reaching for Dean again.

It feels good. Cas’s warm, strong hands are on him, his tongue searching Dean’s mouth. When Dean kisses his way down Cas’s body, Cas sighs with contentment the way he always does, moaning softly when Dean first takes him in his mouth. He’s gentle with Dean, though, petting his hair instead of tugging it, not letting his hips thrust upwards to fuck Dean’s mouth. Maybe he’s just trying to slow things down and make it last, but Dean can’t help but wonder if there’s more to it than that. Of course he appreciates Cas being thoughtful and considerate, but lately it seems it’s always up to Dean to initiate sex. He wonders what would happen if he stopped. Would Cas even notice? Maybe he’d be relieved. Trying not to lose himself in these thoughts, Dean reaches for Cas’s other hand, bringing it to his head as well. Finally Cas seems to get on board, holding Dean a little more firmly in place as he lets his hips rock.

He’d been so quick to turn out the light, though. Not that it’s unusual for them, but maybe it’s easier for him right now not to see Dean while they do this.

Dean continues to work him, tongue dragging up and down the length of his cock, before flicking at the slit the way Cas likes. He’s reassured by the way Cas gasps, the way he moans his name as he gets close.

It’s taking him a little longer than it usually does, and Dean tries to make it even better for him, reaching up to twist a nipple as he redoubles his efforts. Of course it’s taking longer. Cas is probably distracted wondering if Dean’s doing what Alastair taught him. When Cas finally comes, Dean makes sure to swallow every drop. It’s the least he can do.

It’s hard to stay in the mindset of feeling unwanted, though, when Cas hauls him up to kiss him, licking into his mouth to taste himself there. They quickly swap places, Cas tugging off Dean’s clothes. “I love you,” he whispers, then says it once more against the line of Dean’s throat. He presses his lips to the skin over Dean’s thudding heart and says it again, then again into the curve of his hip. He takes Dean apart slowly, touching him with both reverence and comfort. Dean writhes under his touch, gasping when Cas swallows him down. Dean’s nearly blind with need and blessedly out of his own head, focused only on chasing his own pleasure until he climaxes with a long groan. Cas comes back up, wiping his mouth before gathering Dean in his arms. It’s enough to quiet some of the doubts at least, and Dean spends less time lying awake and staring at the ceiling before he falls asleep.

***

By the time Fourth of July rolls around, he’s been in therapy for a month.

Their annual family tradition is to spend Fourth of July at Bobby’s and Dean realizes it’ll be the first time in weeks that all of them have been together. It’s not like Dean’s been avoiding his brother, but he’s only had a few brief interactions with him recently. To his relief, Henry hadn’t been upset the first time he’d seen Dean after the night of the school concert. If he had, Dean might’ve tried to apologize to him, but he seemed perfectly happy to see him, so Dean didn’t bring it up. Maybe that was the coward’s way out, but how the hell was he supposed to broach this topic with the kid? _Your Uncle Dean got hurt by a bad man when he was your age and_ \--yeah, that wasn’t happening.

Sam hadn’t been mad about Dean fucking up and missing those calls when Henry was sick, well, he hadn’t said so to Dean, anyhow. It’s clear that he and Cas had been talking because when Dean apologized, the first thing Sam said was he was glad to hear Dean had agreed to therapy. That wasn’t the same as forgiving him, Dean knew. Plus, it made him feel worse. Like he was helpless and hopeless and needed to be coddled. Sam _should_ be mad. He should’ve yelled at Dean. That would’ve felt honest at least. But Dean is apparently now someone too fragile to handle the goddamned consequences of his shitty actions.

But Dean’s trying. He’s not going to say he likes it--not by any stretch of the imagination, but now that he’s in a bit of a routine, he at least gets his sessions with Billie a bit more. There’s a sort of cycle to them. He’ll go in feeling antsy, feeling amped up and already a bit defensive, stressed in advance about what they might talk about. Then, most times, he’ll let her lead him to making some new sort of observation about what happened to him. After that, he’ll feel like shit for a while, but Billie assures him that’s par for the course and a necessary part of his healing process. He nods like he believes her, but privately he hasn’t ruled out the idea that she’s just a smooth-talking sadist.

Also, he now has an official name for what happened to him: dissociative amnesia. Billie had introduced it in their third session.

“So, previously we talked about dissociation.”

“Yeah.”

“And how its goal is to protect you from what’s happening in the moment.”

Dean already didn’t like where this was going. “Yes.”

“Sometimes, with severe trauma, those memories are too stressful and too threatening, so the brain creates what’s called a dissociative amnesia to protect itself.”

Dean figured he’d just decided to pack these memories away, stored them way down deep where they couldn’t get to the top. The word _amnesia_ had him getting to his feet in alarm. “What, like a split personality or something?”

Billie’s calm demeanor never wavered. “Nothing you’ve said so far gives me reason to believe you have dissociative identity disorder, but you’re right that it also falls under the umbrella of dissociative disorders.”

Pacing around, Dean tried to take this information in. “But I remember what happened.”

“With severe trauma, the memories aren’t gone forever. They’re always there even if you can’t access them. Like we talked about last time, sometimes your body will begin to react to things that remind you of the trauma before you can consciously recall them.”

“Fuck,” Dean hissed. “You keep saying severe trauma. I’m more messed up than I thought.”

“You’re not messed up,” Billie said with conviction. “We can talk about how upsetting this is for you, but you were a child who was a victim of something terrible and traumatic.”

Dean felt some of the fight go out of him and he sat back down, pulling the pillow over his lap. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize to me. The fact of the matter is, from what you’ve told me so far, you’ve managed to live a full and happy life despite all of this.” She held his gaze while she named them. “Successful career, loving marriage, strong family connections. What you’ve shown is an extreme amount of resilience.”

“Well, sure, it’s easy to be resilient when you can’t fucking remember what happened to you!”

“Your brain is not the enemy here. It protected you as long and as well as it could. Right now all of these symptoms, as unpleasant as they are, come from your brain trying to protect you. What we want to do here is safely disconnect the memories from the trauma response.”

“Yeah well, it’s doing a shitty job.”

“There’s nothing easy about it, but the important thing is that you’re here now, looking to work through it.”

Dean’s still agitated. Something about having a name for it makes it feel more real and more dire. “What if I never remember more? What if I don’t _want_ to remember more?”

“Dean, what’s the first thing I told you in our very first session?”

Dean swallowed. “That you weren’t going to make me do anything.”

“Exactly. Now, the truth of the matter is that as you get more comfortable with me and feel safer here, you might remember more. And if that happens, we’ll use our tools to deal with it.”

“I fucking hate this.”

“Yeah,” Billie said, hesitating for a moment before adding, “It’s really fucking hard.”

It was a small thing, but it made Dean trust her a little bit more and he managed a smile. “Are you allowed to say that?”

“Something told me you wouldn’t mind.”

Pulling up to Bobby’s house, Dean takes in the sight of his family gathered around. Sam has an arm looped easily over Eileen’s shoulders. Bobby stands on the porch watching Henry play, a wide grin on his face that he doesn’t even bother to try and hide. Cas sits beside him in the car, eyes so warm and so blue. Dean thinks maybe Billie was right about what he’s been able to accomplish in his life, despite everything.

He’s sure they haven’t told Henry the truth about the day he got sick at school, that Dean was passed out drunk in the middle of the afternoon, but still he worries that Henry has picked up on enough of his parents’ disgust to be resentful. The way he comes running when they pull up in the Impala is enough to let something in Dean’s chest loosen. Dean finds himself smiling at the way the kid is already trying to talk their ears off before Dean even has the engine shut off. When Dean gets out of the car, Henry stops mid-sentence and Dean’s heart drops to his stomach, but Henry merely licks his fingertip, then rubs it on the tiniest of smudges on the car door.

“Got it,” he announces, using his t-shirt to buff it to a gleaming shine.

“Thanks, dude,” Dean tells him while Cas unloads food from the back seat.

“Uncle Bobby said he got extra good fireworks this year.”

“Extra good?”

“Yeah, like they’ll probably blow up the entire yard!”

“Is that so?”

Bobby stands on the porch, arms crossed over his chest. “I’m gonna send you to the moon on one of ‘em.”

Henry whirls around, delighted. “Me?”

“No, your big uncle Dean—of _course_ you.”

“That would be awesome.” Henry runs off toward his mother, still talking to himself.

“That kid would talk to a wall,” Bobby says fondly.

Sam sighs. “Someday I dream of the silent, surly teenage days.”

Bobby snorts and nods at Dean. “You’d better hope he takes after that one. I could barely get a word outta him for years.”

Something cold swoops through Dean as Sam catches his eye. He hasn’t said anything to Bobby about his memories. Jesus, he doesn’t even want to know how Bobby would react to him being in therapy. He can picture the frown and hear him muttering the words _mumbo jumbo_.

Sam must sense Dean’s unease because he changes the subject. “You bring pie?”

“Course I did.” To buy himself a minute, he turns back to see if Cas needs any help, but he’s got everything under control.

Bobby holds open the front door as they climb the couple of steps up to the porch. “Bring it on in and I’ll get you boys a beer.”

 _Shit._ They hadn’t talked about this.

“Actually,” Cas says smoothly, as he moves in front of Dean. “Dean and I are taking an alcohol holiday.”

Bobby furrows his brow. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s a way of cleansing our bodies of toxins.” Cas steps into the house and Bobby turns to look at Dean in a way that says that’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard. While Dean appreciates Cas having a plan, he can’t help rolling his eyes a little bit at Bobby, hoping it sends a message like _the things we do for the people we love_.

“Okay,” Bobby says slowly, clearly unconvinced.

“Lotta excess calories and I’m not getting any younger.” Dean pats his own belly.

Bobby brightens. “Guess you won’t be needing any of that pie then.”

Dean manages a laugh. “Let’s not get carried away.”

The evening is pleasant enough. It’s good to be together and the food, as always, is delicious. Dean drinks his stupid lemonade and tries to enjoy himself. Cas checks in on him more than he usually would, offering to refill his plate, dropping a kiss on the top of his head when he comes back with it. Sam’s eyes dart to him frequently and something about it has Dean gritting his teeth. He’s thankful for the distraction of Henry who can scarcely wait for it to get dark. Dean takes him into the yard and lights sparklers for him while the sun is still visible in the sky.

Eileen doesn’t treat him any differently and for that he finds himself exceedingly grateful. He’s no longer under any delusions that she doesn’t know everything Sam knows, so the fact that her smile seems as open as ever is a comforting bright spot. She fills him in on cute stories about Henry and he thanks her for the photos and updates she’s been sending him all along, keeping them coming even when he hasn’t had always it in him to reply to them.

“I may be biased,” she says, watching Henry spin around with a lit sparkler in each hand, “but this kid makes everything better.”

Dean wholeheartedly agrees, struck once again by the difference a generation makes. Dean knows he was never like Henry—even at the age of nine, but he tries to remember the way he might have looked at the world, what he might have thought and dreamed about before his life turned into an ongoing nightmare.

Being here at Bobby’s, with the hot summer sun setting over the house and salvage yard that have barely changed over the years, a torrent of emotions flood through Dean. He remembers the competing thoughts of how grateful he was that Sam would be here, safe from Alastair, even as it nearly tore him apart to watch Bobby drive away with him.

Maybe he should’ve said something to Bobby. He starts to think about how things might have been different if he’d been brave enough to open his mouth, to confide in someone, _anyone_. He has to shut down that line of thinking, though, because just the idea of that missed opportunity starts to drag him into a tailspin. He’s not dissociating, but he’s so far in his own head that he doesn’t hear Bobby saying his name.

Bobby cuffs him lightly on the back of the head. “Come help me with the pie.”

“Sure. Sorry.” Dean follows him back into the house.

Alone in the kitchen, Bobby turns to him. “What’s going on with you?”

“Me? Nothing. I’m fine.”

Bobby narrows his eyes, a look that says _don’t bullshit me._ “You don’t seem like yourself.”

Dean forces out a laugh, turning to dig a knife out of the drawer. “Who else would I be?”

“This… alcohol vacation. Everything good with you and Cas?” Bobby’s voice is gentler now and Dean has to swallow around the lump that appears in his throat.

“Yeah, we’re fine, I swear.” They are doing much better and he’s able to say it convincingly. It makes the next lie easier to get out. “Just something he wanted to try so I’m supporting him.”

“He’s always been a bit of a health nut, I guess.”

Dean smiles. “Remember when he tried to get me to switch from coffee to tea?”

Bobby laughs. “Well, you let me know if he tries to get you into some kumbaya getting in touch with your feelings bullshit. I’ll come rescue you.”

Dean feels his smile go brittle. Not telling Bobby about his current situation is definitely the way to go. “I’ll for sure do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for Dean experiencing dissociation/panic, slightly more detailed description of where the abuse happened, and Dean worrying while they're having sex that Cas sees him as dirty/tainted due to the abuse.
> 
> All comments are good comments, but I have to say that y'all are some of the kindest, most open, and empathetic people around. I know there are probably easier way to chat with all of you that don't involve torturing myself with writing fic, but honestly, each time I post, I save replying to comments as a reward for getting other things done because it's my favorite thing. Thank you for that. 
> 
> So, how do we think Dean's doing?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end note for content warnings.

As July stretches towards August, Dean still isn’t about to say he likes therapy, but he does find it helpful to know that he’ll have this time with Billie each week. When shit starts to get too overwhelming during the other days he pushes it back down—which, admittedly, probably isn’t great, but knowing he has a designated time to discuss it later helps. The fact that the sessions are time-limited helps as well, sort of breaking everything down into manageable and digestible chunks.

They talk a lot about dissociative amnesia and how it’s protected him. Dean asks her if it’s possible he might have gone his entire life without remembering and she gives that same easy shrug and tells him nobody really knows.

“That’s not exactly encouraging,” he says.

“You’d like it to be more black and white,” she confirms. “We all would, but it doesn’t work that way.”

“Why now?” He’s had years and years of relative peace and he wishes he could get that back. Ever since this whole thing started, there’s been no _un_ dealing with it.

“Sometimes it’s one thing that opens the floodgates, so to speak. Sometimes it’s a series of little ruptures. Why do you think it started now?”

Dean’s been thinking about this and he has some ideas. “The dentist appointment messed me up,” he begins. “That was the first thing to really set me off.”

“When was the last time you’d been to the dentist before that?”

“Probably three years.” It was four and a half but can’t a man have some secrets?

“But you didn’t have this same reaction.”

“No, I mean I didn’t like it and I couldn’t wait for it to be done, but it wasn’t like _that_.” Billie waits and he knows her silence is as good as asking him another question. He wants to blame it on seeing Alastair on the news but, while he’s talked openly to Billie about his abuser being a cop, he hasn’t named names. It just seems safer that way. Besides, his reaction at the dentist and his uptick in nightmares started before that anyhow. “We looked at a house, me and Cas. It was a great house. Perfect in every way, but I got the most uneasy feeling walking back from the workshop. I couldn’t shake it and even though it was everything we wanted, we didn’t put an offer in as a result.”

“Being in a setting similar to the one where your trauma happened can certainly cause anxiety.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think I’d even remembered enough to feel anxious. It just felt… wrong.”

“Maybe your body was reacting to something subconsciously.”

“I guess.” He runs a hand through his hair. “We saw another house later and I was fine until it was time to go see the detached garage. Then I had a full on panic attack. I didn’t know why at the time. At that point I still couldn’t understand the images I was seeing.”

“That sounds extremely upsetting.”

“Yeah,” he says, offhand, because there’s something just out of reach, the whisper of a thought, something that will pull this all together. He can’t grasp it, though. “Cas was great when it happened. I’d seen my regular doctor at that point and she’d given me some breathing to do and stuff like that. He walked me through it.”

“He’s been a good support for you.”

“He has.” That part is true, but Dean’s not sure how long that will last, not when he feels like he’s misrepresented himself completely. He remembers their first time together, how Dean was completely convinced Cas was the first person to touch him there, to be inside him. Dean almost wants to puke at the way he’s misled Cas in every aspect of their life.

“Something’s got you lost in thought,” Billie observes.

Dean flashes her a bright smile, but there’s an edge of bitterness to his voice. “Just thinking about how I liked it better when I was clueless.”

She doesn’t smile back. “You raise a good point.”

Jesus Christ, Dean’s only trying to change the subject. How is that a good point? He sighs. “You don’t say.”

“Dealing with this trauma has upended your life. Not only do you have to deal with what happened to you so many years ago, but you also have to mourn the memories of the childhood you thought you had.”

Dean scoffs. “Even without remembering this, it’s not like I had some picture perfect childhood. My dad did his best but he was a mess after my mom died. Drunk half the time, barely able to hold a job. We moved around a lot as a result. That’s what gets me… even though the abuse was happening, when I look back at those days, the fact that we stayed in one place for so long was a good thing.”

“You lost your mom when you were how old?”

“Four. Sam was a baby.” Involuntarily he shudders. “He doesn’t remember her.”

“Four is pretty young. What do you remember about her?”

Dean feels himself begin to close off. Not in the dissociative way but in an angry, shuttering way. Those memories are private. “Not a whole lot.”

“You’d rather not talk about her.”

“Do I have to?”

Billie shakes her head. “Not if you don’t want to. You feel like your dad got himself together after you moved here?”

Dean reflects on that. “No. But I guess he managed to pull it together enough to hold his job.”

“And it was through his work that you first came into contact with your abuser.”

They’ve been over this before in previous sessions. Billie knows damn well that his dad worked with the police department and that’s how Alastair ended up at their home garage. Dean doesn’t know what she’s getting at, so he just nods.

“Your dad was a mechanic,” Billie says, writing something down on her notepad and fuck, Dean would like to know what. He wonders if he can ask. “Like you.”

Dean manages a smile at that, because if his dad did one good thing, it was to put him on his career path. “He taught me everything I know. Once I turned ten I was allowed to use all the tools.” His brow furrows and he rubs at his temple. Billie watches him expectantly. “Henry,” Dean says softly.

Billie looks confused, then her expression clears. “Your nephew.”

Dean nods, heavy with the weight of the realization. “I think I know what set this whole thing off. Henry’s turning ten soon.”

“And that’s how old you were when the abuse started.”

“He’s so little. He was a preemie, you know? So he’s always been smaller than the other kids his age. I think about him and…” he swallows hard as his voice cracks.

“What’s bringing up this emotion for you right now?”

It’s a dumb fucking question. “What do you think?” Billie continues to look at him, calmly but evenly. It reminds him a little of Cas, actually. Dean’s voice goes hard. “If anybody ever hurt him like that, I’d kill them.”

“He’s lucky to have you looking out for him.”

That’s not the response Dean was expecting, but he’ll take it. “Yeah.”

“You’ve told me a bit about Henry. What were you like when you were ten?”

“Uh.” Dean doesn’t know where to start with that. “Just a normal kid, I guess.”

Billie nods. “Like Henry.”

“I mean… Henry’s got the apple pie life. Intact family, somebody home when he gets back from school, lots of activities.” He smiles. “He plays the clarinet in the band. He’s awful, honestly.”

“And you?”

Dean’s got this boiled down to a two sentence explanation so he’s not sure why he’s hesitating at putting it out there. “I had to take care of Sam. That was always my job after my mom died.”

There’s a long pause before Billie says, “When you were four.”

Dean shifts in his seat. “I didn’t mind,” he says quickly. “And there was nobody else to do it.”

“You didn’t have an adult to look out for you the way your nephew does.”

“Look, I’m not saying my dad was great, but he did the best he could.” Dean’s confused, feeling anger and outrage swirl together in his gut. “Things would’ve been a lot different if my mom had lived.”

“It sounds like you feel he did what he could given the circumstances. Still, he wasn’t able to keep you safe.”

Dean grabs the pillow and twists it in his hands. “I never told him what was happening.”

“That’s not unusual. Abusers can be really skilled at scaring their victims into never telling anyone.”

“I guess.” Dean stares into the middle distance. “I guess I could’ve stopped it if I had.”

“Okay, let’s unpack that for a minute. Are you saying you think it was your fault the abuse continued?”

“I mean… I know it wasn’t my fault, but maybe it wouldn’t have gone on for so long if I’d told somebody.”

“How long did it go on?”

Dean told her from the start that it went on for years but they haven’t touched on specifics. He works his jaw for a moment. “It didn’t stop until my dad died. I was almost fifteen.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Yeah, I fucking _know_.”

“You blame yourself for letting it go on so long.”

“Jesus, you’re just the master of the fucking obvious, huh? Look, it was one thing when I was ten. I was just a kid. But almost fifteen? And I just let it keep happening?” He swallows down the bile rising in his throat. Maybe he liked it. Maybe that’s why he ended up with a husband and not a wife.

“Dean,” she says gently. “What happened to you wasn’t your fault. You were a child—“ He starts to argue, but she raises one hand and he stops. “Even at fifteen. You were a child being manipulated and hurt by what sounds like a very powerful man. You had no adults in your life that you could count on. What choice do you think you had that you didn’t make?”

Dean sits in silence. He knows what she’s saying sounds right—generally speaking, anyhow—but he can’t shake the fact that maybe his situation was different. He wasn’t a kid like Henry. He wasn’t soft and sheltered. He’d seen enough of the realities of the world to know better. He might’ve been a child, but he was used to responsibility. There has to be a better reason than this for not telling his dad.

“I had—have—an uncle. Well, we’re not technically related but he’s always been family. If he’d known… I think he would’ve helped.”

“Tell me about your uncle.”

Dean does. He tells Billie how Bobby took them in when John died, how he kept Dean on track when he wanted nothing more than to be left to his own self-destructive devices. He tells her how jealous he was that Sam got to spend the night out there at Bobby’s house a lot of weekends when Dean had to stay behind and help his dad. He even laughs a little telling her about how Bobby dotes on Henry now, indulging him in ways he never would have done with Sam and Dean.

“The two of you sound really close. What have you told him about what you’re dealing with now?”

“Nothing. He’s… I don’t think he would get all this.”

“All what?”

Dean gestures vaguely. “This. Therapy.”

“You’re worried he would disapprove.”

“He’s just… old school, I guess.”

“So it’s easier not to tell him.”

Dean nods.

“Earlier you said that you’d kill anyone who tried to hurt your nephew.”

“That was just a figure of speech.”

“Of course. My point is that you’d want to know if something had happened to him.”

Shifting in his seat, Dean shakes his head. “I know what you’re trying to do. But you don’t know Bobby. He wouldn’t know what to do with this.”

Billie nods and Dean thinks he’s won this round. “Sometimes when we decide how someone will or won’t respond, we end up taking away the opportunity for that honest interaction.”

“Look, I know he cares about me. He’s more the type that would want to go after the guy if he knew.”

“He sounds protective of you. Just like you are with Henry.”

Dean considers that. He’s always felt like Bobby’s had his back no matter what. Still, he’s dealt with enough of Dean’s shit over the years. “I guess,” he says. Something inside of him lights up at the image of Bobby stomping up to confront Alastair, shotgun in hand, but it’s quickly replaced with a sharp flutter of anxiety. It’s too dangerous.

“From everything you’ve said, he sounds like a second father to you.”

“A first in a lot of ways,” Dean says without meaning to. He feels a little twinge of guilt at throwing his dad under the bus. “I mean, I felt like I could be a kid with him.”

“Yeah,” Billie says softly. “That was your job. To be a kid.”

***

Dean doesn’t bother with small talk the next time he sees Billie, because something has been on his mind. “Okay, but I don’t get it. You said my brain made me forget but that’s not exactly true. It’s not like every time it happened it seemed like the first time.” Dean remembers exactly how stressed he was, how on edge he felt as those weekend nights rolled around. He remembers barely being able to breathe as he’d wait to see if this was a night Alastair would pull up, an easy amble to his walk, a sickening sneer masquerading as a smile on his face.

“You’re right,” Billie agrees. “Being caught off guard like that each and every time would be worse. As you’ve discovered, the memories have always been there, but when they were too much to live with on a daily basis, your brain found a way to hide them when you needed to function in other parts of your life.”

“Like compartmentalizing?”

She considers that. “Yes, but if the compartment was made of heavy steel lined with lead.”

“It just turns off like that?”

“It’s different for everyone—“

“You know I’m getting sick of hearing that, right?”

“Oh, I do.” She smiles. “I wish I had more satisfying answers for you, but the truth is there’s not one way that this happens or plays out in the aftermath.”

They sit in silence for a moment. “So one minute I’m there, experiencing all of it and then the next it’s just… gone.”

“Some people,” she begins, then laughs outright when he raises his eyebrows at her. “Some people had certain markers for the amnesia to set in, rituals almost. I read a case study of a woman who was abused as a young girl in the principal’s office. For her, it was hearing the click of the door shut behind her as she left that allowed her to continue her day at school like nothing had happened.”

“Jesus.” Dean nearly hisses it. “That’s awful.”

Billie looks at him kindly. “It’s hard to imagine the kind of strength it took to carry that weight around while having to act like nothing was wrong.”

“Yeah, it— _oh_. I see what you did there.”

“It may not feel that way to you right now, Dean, but you’re one of the lucky ones. Many people with your sort of trauma become self-destructive. Many of them die, either by accident or by suicide before they ever get the chance to process it.”

Dean thinks, long and hard. “When it first started coming back to me, that was the one thing that helped, you know? Drinking.”

She nods. “It’s extremely common. Substance abuse and trauma often go hand in hand.”

“It was a lot easier than this bullshit.”

He can tell she’s not about to let him get away with that assessment. “In some ways, perhaps. At the surface level, anyhow. But it doesn’t take away the underlying pain and there’s no moving forward until that’s addressed.”

It’s weird to think about the fact that the amnesia let him live his life for decades, giving him the chance to build a support system while he remained clueless to what had happened. It allowed him to reach a place of safety before having to deal with it, instead of eating at his very soul, eroding it day after day for his entire life.

“I guess I lucked out, having a break from it all these years.” He raises an imaginary toast. “Dissociative amnesia… the real hero.”

She smiles, then her face changes. Her voice is smooth when she says, “You’re remembering something.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, a little breathless as the mental image floods back in. This one is less scary, but he remembers it with a sense memory nearly equal in intensity to the abuse. The cold night air, the dark shadows stretching across the yard from the shop light in the garage. The uneven feel of the pavers that made a makeshift path back toward the house.

“Talk or breathe?” She asks in a shorthand that gets to the heart of the matter. He knows that she’s generally one for open-ended questions, but right now she’s offering him two quick options and neither of them are wrong. It feels like a gift.

“Talk,” he says, surprised at how little time he needs to debate.

“Okay. Whenever you’re ready.”

He knows “whenever” is a relative term, as his session has a definite start and end time, but the fact that she’s letting him take a moment allows him to get it out there. “Afterwards. When it was done, I would walk back to the house in the dark. I’d count the steps as I walked.” _One, two, three, four_. By six he was out of reach of the light from the garage and, bathed in shadows, he could start to breathe again. “I remember.” It was like coming back into his body, like a movie screen coming into focus when you slip on 3-D glasses. _Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen._ “It had to be twenty-nine. From the time I left the garage to when I touched the handle for the back door.” Sometimes he had to correct as he approached the house, taking a couple of great, leaping bounds or tiny, mincing steps. “Exactly twenty-nine.” He looks up from where he’s been staring at the carpet, new realization flooding into him. “That’s why the house Cas and I looked at felt all wrong. I kept saying the garage was too close to the house.” He’d been pacing off steps without even realizing it, his conscious brain unaware of the significance. “My body remembered.”

“Yeah,” Billie says softly. “Yeah, it did.”

They sit in silence for a long moment. “So does this mean I can’t live anywhere that doesn’t have twenty-nine steps between the house and the garage without freaking out?”

“What do you think?”

“I think… now that I know it would be okay.”

She nods. “That’s the power in what you’re doing here. By understanding the connections and the emotions attached to them, you can begin to reclaim things.”

Dean slumps back against the couch. “Ugh. I hate this.”

“The eternal therapy mood,” she says lightly. “But from everything you’ve said, not dealing with it wasn’t working out that great for you.” She gives him another moment to breathe. “How do you feel now that you’ve recovered that memory?”

“Tired,” he says, and it’s true. His limbs feel heavy and leaden, like he’s run a marathon. “But a little better, I guess.”

Billie grins. “This is why we do it.”

He slumps back against the cushion. “You love being right, don’t you?”

“I love helping people become the best versions of themselves.”

“Ugh,” Dean says again, with dramatic effect. But it lights the tiniest spark inside him about maybe not feeling like this forever.

***

Dean honestly can’t believe his luck that weekend when he wakes on a Saturday morning to find he’s slept straight through the night, not waking until the bright summer sun is climbing in the sky. He’s actually a little groggy from so much uninterrupted sleep, but it’s so nice to wake slowly—no alarm, no gasping awake from nightmares—that he’s not complaining. He lies in bed, warm and relaxed, listening to the sounds of Cas moving around downstairs before stretching luxuriously. Finally, he tosses back the covers and pads to the bathroom.

It’s probably just a fluke, he tells himself. Just a rare occurrence of the stars aligning to give him some solid rest. Maybe the therapy is helping, another part of his brain suggests. It sounds a lot like Billie. “Not now,” he mutters. “I’m trying to piss.”

Cas looks up from where he’s sitting at the table with the newspaper when Dean makes his way downstairs. “Good morning, sleeping beauty.”

Dean kisses him and settles in at the table. “Morning.”

“Get some good sleep?”

“I did.”

Cas gets to his feet. “Coffee?”

“I can get it.”

“I know, but I’m already up.”

Dean’s eyes light up when Cas returns, holding out a steaming mug. “God, you are an absolute vision.”

“Me? Or the coffee?”

“I’ll never tell.” Dean takes a sip. Just like his husband, it’s hot and perfect. When Cas sits back down, he pats his lap and Dean settles back in his chair as he lifts one, then the other foot to place there. Cas rubs his feet, long strokes on the underside, thumbs digging into the arch. Dean sighs. “You spoil me.”

“Least I can do,” Cas says, and they sit there for a long while in contented silence. Dean can hear a bird outside singing its tiny heart out.

“So, what’s on the agenda today?”

Cas smiles at him, eyes fond. “Whatever you’d like.”

Dean flips through the newspaper on the table. “Any open houses worth checking out?” They’ve gotten so off track dealing with Dean’s shit, but he really is feeling better and it’s time to refocus their efforts.

“Oh,” Cas says softly. “I thought… maybe we’d put that on hold for a bit.”

“Well, we did,” Dean points out. They haven’t gone to look at a house since the time Dean found himself unable to walk across the yard. “Look I know I freaked out at the last one, but,”—he swallows—“I know what that’s all about now. I’ll be fine.” He hasn’t told Cas about his memory, the way the ritual of the twenty-nine steps was so essential for him locking things down. No need to lay all of that on him. Besides, like Dean said to Billie, now that he’s made the connection, he’ll be going in with a better understanding. He’s bound not to react the same way.

“I’m sure you will,” Cas says in a voice that isn’t entirely convincing. “I thought maybe we should re-prioritize a little, though.”

Dean sits up, pulling his feet back to the floor. “Look, Cas, I know I derailed things for most of the summer, but buying a house has been our goal for a long time. You’ve been so great about everything, but we don’t need to keep putting this on hold. I can handle it.”

“I appreciate that, Dean, I do.” His eyes dart away. “I thought maybe it would be better to focus on one thing at a time is all.”

“That seems like something we should decide together,” Dean begins, but in fourteen years with this man Dean’s learned all his tells. He stares his husband down. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Fidgeting with the handle of his mug, Cas says, “This isn’t something I want you to worry about. Not when you’ve got so much else on your mind.”

“Cas.”

Cas takes in a big breath and lets it out slowly. “Our insurance doesn’t cover your therapy. Billie’s out of network.”

Fuck. Dean hadn’t even thought about that since Cas is the one who handles all that shit “Well, maybe I won’t need a lot more,” he says, even though he knows how unconvincing that sounds.

Cas’s blue gaze goes steely. “You will have as many sessions as it takes. We aren’t scrimping on your health.”

“But, Cas…” he feels his stomach sink, the coffee souring. They’ve worked so hard for this, saved for so long. Now he’s going to piss away their savings and leave them right back where they started. “Maybe I could find somebody cheaper.”

“Absolutely not. It’s not easy to find someone who specializes in recovered trauma, not to mention someone you click with. You like Billie, right?”

Dean does, but maybe he’d like somebody else. Somebody their insurance covers. The thought of starting again, though, telling his story from the beginning with somebody new… even contemplating it causes a thin sheen of sweat to form between his shoulder blades. “I do, but--“

“No buts. You are more important to me than any house.”

He doesn’t believe it, but he swallows down any more protests. Easier to make a joke instead. “No butts, huh? That’s not usually how you roll.” He rests his chin on his hand and gives his husband a long once-over. To his relief, Cas loses that solemn look and laughs.

“Now _that_ we can put on our agenda.”

But just like that, his day has turned and he’s hit again by how for every hopeful moment in therapy, there seem to be a hundred more during each day just waiting to drag him down.

They end up having a quiet Saturday, running a few errands, doing laundry. While Cas does some work on his presentation for the library conference, Dean throws together a couple of meals to put in the freezer. He finds that on therapy days he’s almost useless by the end of the day, like an orange squeezed until there’s nothing left but pulp. They’ve been doing a lot of takeout on those days, but if money is going to be an issue Dean can sure as hell buckle down and do some extra meal prep.

It’s the kind of quiet domestic day that Dean loves, the kind he never thought he’d have and that he’s come to cherish. Still, he finds he can’t quite fully enjoy it thanks to the shimmering guilt that echoes through everything he does. He can’t shake the feeling that every decision he’s made lately has been wrong, that he's been nothing but selfish. By the time they head upstairs to get ready for bed, Dean’s frantically trying to tamp down the thought that Cas put the house buying on hold because he doesn’t want to tie himself to Dean’s future the way he did before. It’s not like Dean can blame him; of course Cas would want to keep his options open now that Dean’s turned out to be a complete stranger in some ways. There’s no chance Cas isn’t questioning his own priorities, even if it’s only at a subconscious level. But hey, Dean knows a few things about that and without a doubt those issues will eventually claw their way to the surface.

Cas doesn’t seem to notice Dean’s preoccupation, though, and he rolls to face Dean, hand drifting over his shoulder and down the length of his arm. “One last thing on our to do list.”

Dean knows that Cas assured him that his recovery is a priority, but today made it clear as can be that he’s got to work on putting Cas’s needs first.

“Damn right,” he says, and leans in to kiss him. Cas’s lips are soft, his mouth minty with toothpaste. His hand reaches up to cup Dean’s face and he kisses him back gently first, and then with a bit of urgency. Dean does his best to stop thinking and focus on the sensations, to ground himself in the moment, feeling Cas’s strong hands soothe along his back. It feels familiar and good and Dean’s body begins to react. The heat flutters in his groin and he slots a leg between Cas’s, pulling him closer. Cas half rolls on top of him, hips lazily shifting to find Dean’s thigh. Dean threads hands through Cas’s hair, deepening their kiss, feeling his heartbeat begin to race in a pleasurable way for a change.

Still, he can tell Cas is holding back, moving things along more slowly than usual. Every time they have sex these days (and Dean notes again that even though Cas instigated things when they got into bed, it’s only because Dean brought it up this morning) it’s like he’s making sure Dean knows he always has an out. It’s the opposite of what Dean needs right now and he takes the lead, reaching between Cas’s legs. In response, Cas moans into Dean’s mouth and Dean nearly has to stop kissing him to smile. _This_ he knows how to do. He wastes no time, slipping his hand into Cas’s underwear, working him to full hardness with quick, determined touches. “I want you to fuck me.”

Cas pushes up on one elbow to look into Dean’s eyes. Apparently he’s fine with whatever he sees there because he kisses Dean once on the lips, then moves down to kiss his way along Dean’s neck, teeth scraping at the juncture of his shoulder, one hand teasing over his chest. Dean makes a soft sound, bucking his hips up, as Cas shifts and leans down to lick at Dean’s nipple.

Dean lets his hands caress the length of Cas’s spine, hands cupping the swell of his ass to get him even closer, trying to pull Cas on top of him. Cas resists, though, mouth leaving a hot, wet trail along Dean’s stomach as he cups him through the fabric of his underwear. He works Dean slowly, until Dean’s aching with need, and only then does he dip his tongue under the waistband.

Once they’re both naked, Cas kneels between his legs and takes Dean’s cock into his mouth, lips and tongue working in practiced ways. He knows just how much Dean needs, how not to take things too far because Dean likes to come with Cas inside him. When he deems Dean ready, he props himself up on one arm, leaning over Dean’s chest to reach for the bedside table drawer. A moment later, he’s stretching back alongside him, using lube-slick fingers to open Dean up while Dean kisses whatever part of him he can reach… the edge of his sharp jaw, his upper arm. When Dean’s squirming under his touch, Cas kisses him again and lies back, stroking his own cock slowly, ready for Dean to crawl on top and sink down like he always does.

But Dean has other ideas. All he’s done lately is take: exhausting Cas’s time and energy with his bullshit, squandering their hard-earned savings, putting their house buying dream on hold. He can give Cas this one thing at least.

Still on his back, Dean spreads his legs, bending his knees. “Let’s do it like this.”

The hand on Cas’s cock stops moving. “Dean.”

“I want to,” he insists. “I can do it.”

Cas turns onto his side. “I don’t need you to do that.”

“I know now,” Dean says. “I can do it.”

“Dean, I don’t want that.”

Of course he doesn’t. It’s a reminder of how dirty Dean is, how broken and used. Dean can’t help himself, he tugs at Cas’s shoulder trying to pull him on top of him. Cas jerks out his grip, sitting up where he’s well out of Dean’s reach before turning on the bedside lamp.

The light is bright and Dean throws an arm over his eyes.

“What’s going on, Dean?” He’s using that too gentle tone again. The one that makes Dean feel like a child who doesn’t know anything. It mixes with the shame in his gut and fizzes into anger.

In a burst of motion Dean sits up, grabbing his underwear from the floor and turning his back to Cas while he gets dressed again. “I get it.”

“Get what?” Cas sounds genuinely confused.

“It’s easier if you don’t have to think about me like that.”

“That’s—that’s not it at all. I just… if we’re going to try something different, don’t you think we should talk about it first?”

“You fucking me isn’t different.” He’s on his feet now, facing Cas, the wide expanse of their bed yawning like a chasm between them.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to prove here,” Cas says slowly. “I don’t need you to do this.”

“What if I need to? Don’t I get any say in the matter?”

Cas blinks at him. “Of course you do, but we should talk about it first.”

Dean shakes his head. “I saw how you reacted. That’s my answer.”

“I pulled back because I was caught off guard. Not because I don’t want you.” He runs a hand through his hair. “We both need to be on board is all.”

At some level, Dean knows what he’s saying is true and he even understands it. But his knee jerk response is a lot less generous. “Oh, so now I’m the one forcing you into something? Like you’d even know what that feels like.”

Dean expects Cas to flinch at that, but instead his eyes go hard. “You are putting words into my mouth. If you want to talk about it, we can find something we’re both comfortable with, but you can’t… use me this way.”

When will Dean learn not to double down when he’s wrong? Not today, apparently. He scoffs. “Don’t worry. You’ve made yourself perfectly clear.” He reaches for the doorknob and Cas gets to his feet, like he’s going to follow him. Dean jabs a finger at him. “Don’t.”

He stomps downstairs. Cas doesn’t come after him.

Dean wishes he could pour himself a drink and he thinks about getting in the Impala, taking off to do just that. He imagines the burn of the whiskey in his thoat, the way it would dull and quiet the part of his brain that won’t ever shut the fuck up. But changing into jeans would require going back upstairs where he’d have to face Cas, and he’s too cowardly to do that. He paces around downstairs until the urge subsides. Then he sits on the couch with his head in his hands. He promised Cas he wouldn’t drink—and he hasn’t, but Cas doesn’t understand what it’s like, doesn’t know how it feels to not be able to escape your own mind. Nobody understands what he’s going through and he’s just so fucking tired.

Dean feels utterly and achingly alone even though he knows it’s his own fault. He’s painted Cas into a corner where nothing he can do is right: ignore Dean’s spoken request and risk making him feel like a victim again or abide by his words and leave Dean to stew in his own misery. Cas is simply respecting his wishes and it’s not lost on Dean that it’s precisely the choice Dean _didn’t_ extend to him.

All this fucking therapy and still Dean isn’t man enough to go upstairs and talk this out with his husband. He didn’t think it would be like this. He thought he’d go to these sessions, reluctantly talk about it, and feel better. Sure, he’s learned some shit about himself and about what happened to him, but the truth of the matter is he feels _worse._ It reinforces the thought that he’s hopeless, beyond saving.

During his last session, Billie asked how his grounding techniques were working and he’d lied and said fine. She’d smiled and he knew it was what she wanted to hear, but the truth of the matter is they aren’t working. He does okay when he’s there in her office, but when he tries on his own, they don’t have the same effect and he’s spending more and more hours walking around with fear and panic trying to wrestle him into their grip. But everyone’s so pleased with his progress, so proud of what he’s doing. He doesn’t have it in him to disappoint them all yet again.

Still, it’s obvious that he’s not getting better and enough time has passed that Cas can see it, too. Picking fights instead of communicating honestly is only going to validate Cas’s concerns and speed along his decision. It’ll be easier for both of them when Cas decides he’s had enough.

By the time he comes back up to their bedroom, Dean doesn’t know if Cas is asleep or if he’s merely doing an Oscar worthy imitation, but either way they don’t talk. Dean feels like shit. He’s dragging Cas down with him, giving him a front row seat to the disaster that has always been Dean’s life. He managed to hide it for years but now the truth is out.

Billie explained to him once how trauma literally changes the brain, forging new connections that cause the PTSD to take hold. But Dean’s starting to suspect he was broken before the abuse ever started, that it’s why Alastair preyed on him the way he did. It’s not like he thinks he deserved it— Dean wouldn’t wish what Alastair did to him on his worst enemy—but he wonders again why he let it go on so long. In a fucked up way, maybe that was the life he was meant to lead and the time he’s spent with Cas has been the lie. There are two sides to his life now, two that he can’t reconcile. If he can’t figure it out, how can he expect Cas to?

Despite everything, he wants Cas to take him in his arms, to hold him close so that Dean can feel the constant beat of his heart, the warm caress of his breath. There may only be inches between them, but Dean knows he’s destroyed his chance of having that. Dean rolls away from him and tries to sleep. The sky is beginning to lighten before he finally does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean remembers the ritual he engaged in to lock away the memories after the episodes of abuse. He and Cas get into a fight when Dean tries to get Cas to be on top of him during sex without ever discussing it first. 
> 
> Me, writing this fic: I am so sorry, Dean. 
> 
> Me, posting this fic: I am so sorry, readers.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end note for content warnings. 
> 
> Okay, my friends. Hang in there with me just a little bit longer.

They don’t talk about it. Not the next morning or in the days that follow. Dean feels the waves of frustration that are coming off of Cas but he doesn’t give Cas a chance to say anything, finding reasons to stay late at work or busy himself around the house. Cas, for his part, uses the excuse of his upcoming presentation to close himself in his office in the evenings and each time he does, Dean stops whatever he was pretending to do in the kitchen and drops heavily onto the couch.

He knows it’s up to him to reach out. He started the whole issue, he’s the one who stomped out and put an end to the discussion. He’s too fucking scared, though. So long as he doesn’t ask Cas if he’s thinking about leaving, he won’t have to deal with it.

A while back, they’d talked about spending the night at the conference hotel, a mini-vacation from their everyday lives. But that was in the _before_ as Dean has come to refer to it in his mind. Back when Dean was a different person. Back when their future stretched out brightly before them. Cas hasn’t mentioned it recently but Dean has no doubt that he’ll take that night at the hotel for himself, desperate for some breathing room away from Dean and his unending neediness. He wonders if a single night away will be enough to tip Cas over the edge, if the relief of not dealing with his disaster of a husband for one fucking day will be what it takes to galvanize his decision. It won’t be hard, not once he’s reminded of the type of life he could be living, surrounded by colleagues who respect and admire him.

Before he recovered these memories, Dean’s life might not have been perfect but it was sure as hell better than this. It’s not like he didn’t remember those years the abuse happened, it’s just that he remembered them _differently_. Sure, his mom was gone and he had a lot more responsibility than most kids his age, but if you’d asked him even a few months ago, he would’ve said he was mostly a regular kid, maybe a troubled teenager, but who the fuck wasn’t?

Now, with the reality of those years back with a vengeance, he’s mired in the feelings he had at the time: how frightened he was, how dirty and worthless. Alastair had gotten inside his head as well as his body and, while the physical wounds have long since healed, those thoughts linger on. There had to be a reason he chose Dean. Why he kept choosing Dean. That thought plagues him and Dean wonders, with a sickening lurch of his stomach, whether he’ll remember there were times that he actually liked it.

On top of that, he still can’t shake the fact that Cas doesn’t know the real Dean. Hell, Dean’s not even sure he knows himself anymore. Billie had talked about resilience, but all Dean can see is a hefty dose of imposter syndrome. How can any of what he’s built—his work, his marriage—even count when it wasn’t fully _him_?

He wishes he could go back to those earlier days of blissful ignorance, as imperfect and cowardly as they may have been. He had a life he was happy with, people who loved and respected him. Now he sees it in his brother’s eyes, like he’s gamely pushing forward because he has to, even though he’s so sick of dealing with him. He sees it in the tension that creases Cas’s brow when he looks at Dean, in the weariness that mars his handsome face.

He just wants it all to stop.

***

Dean goes to therapy that week and sits there, sullen, his arms folded over his chest. He doesn’t tell Billie anything. Not about his fight with Cas. Not about his fears. What’s the point? Nobody understands and nothing’s going to change. He glances down at the pillow on the couch and has to stop himself from rolling his eyes, thinking about sitting there in previous sessions with it clutched to his chest.

Billie tries to draw him out. “It seems like maybe something’s on your mind this week.”

“Nope,” Dean says in a clipped tone. “I’m all good.”

She raises an eyebrow at that. “Okay, let’s talk about what’s got you feeling good.”

“Maybe I’m just sick of talking.”

“It can be a lot,” she observes.

Dean does roll his eyes this time, but he doesn’t respond.

“It’s important to remember that there will be setbacks along the way, but that’s to be expected and there’s both value and opportunity in those moments.”

“Don’t you ever get sick of this?”

“Of what, exactly?”

“Wasting your time with this bullshit.”

She eyes him cooly. “Last week we talked about how exhausting it was for you to carry that fear around all the time.” She waits and eventually he gives a cursory nod. “And how hard it can be to ask for help when you need it.”

“Look,” he says. “I know you think you know me now, but you don’t.”

“That’s fair,” she says. “We’ve been so focused on your past, but we can talk about whatever you’d like.” He doesn’t want to talk at all. That’s the fucking point. When he doesn’t respond, she tries again. “When things get difficult, it can help to remember that there are any number of approaches to try, not just what we’ve been doing here. There are things available that you haven’t tried yet, like medications or desensitization therapy or connecting with other survivors.”

Dean almost snorts. The only thing worse than sitting in a room talking about this with Billie would be sitting in some shitty classroom with a whole group of strangers. _“I’m Dean and I let some guy rape me for years.”_ _“Hi, Dean.”_ Dean grits his teeth. Why did he even come here today? All he’s done is waste Billie’s time and more of their money. He feels his breath constrict in his chest and it actually makes him feel better. He knows he can’t forget the past again but he can work on making himself less vulnerable to it.

Billie sits there calmly, waiting for him to talk, but he can outlast her. Then he realizes he doesn’t have to. He’s a grown man and he doesn’t have to sit here until the clock reaches fifty minutes after the hour.

He shifts forward in his seat and Billie immediately reads his body language. “You can of course leave—that’s completely within your right. I’ll urge you to remember the supports you have in your life and the techniques in your toolkit. Today may not feel great, but that doesn’t mean things won’t feel better tomorrow.”

Dean leaves. Billie’s a nice lady, he hopes she has time for a coffee or something with the extra time he’s giving her.

***

It’s a few days later when, after another mostly silent dinner and an evening spent downstairs by himself, Dean takes some laundry upstairs. As he passes Cas’s office, he can hear him talking. At first he thinks he’s practicing his presentation, and Dean feels a pang of guilt. He’s always been Cas’s first audience, happily sitting and listening to him refine his talks, but here’s just another role he failed to fill.

He stops, because the cadence doesn’t sound quite right and after a moment of hesitation outside the door he realizes Cas is on the phone.

Standing there, his rage builds as he listens to the end of the conversation. When Cas says goodbye, Dean drops the laundry basket. It hits the floor with a loud bang and a second later Cas pulls open the office door. He regards Dean with that same guarded look he’s been walking around with, the creases deep between his brows.

“You told your mother.”

“I gave her a bare bones description of what we’re dealing with, yes.”

“ _We_.” Dean spits out the word.

Immediately Cas tries to placate him. “Look, Dean, I know I can’t even come close to understanding what you’ve gone through—what you’re _going_ through. I want to be able to help you as best I can but you need to understand that this has an impact on me as well.”

Dean’s so angry he can barely see straight. “Well, cry me a fucking river.”

“I’m not trying to make this about me.” Cas sighs. “But this is a lot and sometimes I need someone to talk to about it.”

“Your _mother_?”

“You tell me, Dean. Who would you rather I went to? Someone at work? Charlie?”

Dean doesn’t have a good answer for that but he’s not willing to concede the point, not when Cas is so close to admitting the truth: that this is too much for him to handle.

“Sorry if my story of _ongoing childhood sexual abuse_ is dragging you down, buddy.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Sure sounds like it to me.”

Cas throws his hands up and pivots away from Dean. His shoulders are rigid with tension. Dean thinks he’s going to walk away, wary of setting Dean off any further and he feels something in his chest that isn’t quite relief. But then Cas whirls back around. “It’s this. _This_ is the problem.” He gestures between then and Dean feels his stomach sink like a stone. “I want to be here for you, I’m _trying_ in every goddamn way I know how.” He stops and shakes his head with a look somewhere between sorrow and disbelief. “But you keep pushing me away. And I get it, I do. This is hard and scary and life-changing and—“

“You don’t get it. You can’t and you never, ever will but I thought at least you might not spread what’s _mine_ all around town, though.” He slaps his hand against his chest at the word “mine” and the sound echoes through the tension filling the room. “Hey, tell enough people and maybe Alastair will come back and finish the job. Is that what you want?”

Cas’s face crumples and Dean’s resolve should give way with it but it feels so fucking good to be the one not in pain for a change. He knows he’s not being fair but he’s so tired of feeling like he’s at the mercy of his own life. Cas has a look on his face like Dean’s struck him and, as Dean watches, his eyes spill over with tears. “I don’t know what you want from me,” he finally chokes out. “I love you so much.”

“I don’t need anything from you.” Dean turns and heads right back down the steps. He grabs his keys and he’s out the door.

Dean drives away in the dark, the roar of the engine matching the deafening rage inside him. He tears out onto the street, every movement hard and decisive. His anger feels pure and righteous, anchoring him firmly in place. This is what he needed: to take charge. Tiptoeing around his own life, meekly going along while Cas made decisions for him-- _no more drinking, go to therapy_ \-- it only served to make him more of a victim as he waited to see what Cas’s next move would be. What hoops he’d put out for Dean to jump through. That was his mistake. He won’t make it again.

In the Impala’s embrace, Dean feels as safe as he ever has. He’s not dissociating, but nevertheless he finds himself taking note of the textures of the car. The gentle curve of the leather seat, soft and familiar as any bed he’s ever slept in. He traces the armrest with his left hand, spins a finger over the crank that rolls down the window. This car, Dean realizes, is the only thing that hasn’t changed. He and Sam have grown, their parents are both dead and gone. Even the house they lived in has been taken over by someone else, remodeled and redecorated. But his Baby? She’s always been there for him, a constant shelter in every sense of the word. He drives aimlessly, putting distance between himself and the messes he keeps making. It’s late and the streets are quiet.

He does his best not to think about Cas, but it’s nearly impossible to shake the image of his anguished face, so hurt and confused as Dean took off. It’s right, though, Dean thinks. It’s time Cas realized that the man he married, the one he thinks he loves, is someone he doesn’t know at all. Every single thing he thought he knew about Dean has been a lie. Dean wonders if their marriage certificate counts as a receipt of sorts, something Cas can return to the courthouse to get his life back or whatever.

Dean pushes those thoughts away and keeps driving. Sometimes he wonders what his dad would have made of Cas. Would he, like Naomi, ever have found a way to accept them? The truth of the matter is that Dean knows he probably never would have let himself fall for Cas had his Dad still been alive.

His dad did his best. It had been rough going after Mary died, but eventually he settled down enough to hold that job and give the boys a steady place to grow up. He’d done his best to teach Dean a skill that could get him through life. Dean knows it wasn’t on him, but he wonders if not wanting to rock that boat is why Dean never told his father what was happening with Alastair.

He wonders what his dad thought, though. All those times Alastair took Dean into the small bay of the garage. Dean doesn’t know how long they were there but it seemed to last forever each time. How did John Winchester never question it?

Without warning, he slams on the brakes, stopping the car completely in the middle of the road, his heart beginning to gallop in his chest.

He didn’t have to tell his dad. His dad knew all along.

Dean’s fingers grip the steering wheel, knuckles white. He’d told Billie that the abuse didn’t happen every time he worked in the garage with his Dad. In fact, the excruciating anticipation of wondering whether it would happen caused him nearly as much distress as the actual abuse. But now he remembers how he knew it would be one of those nights.

He sees his dad now, a weird smile on his face, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s handing Dean his very own beer, encouraging him to drink up.

Here, in the empty street, Dean’s stomach churns. It’s not the question he should be asking himself, but he wonders why his body decided to react so strongly to so many things but continued to let him drink beer all these years.

His dad knew.

Did he think getting Dean drunk as a child was somehow a bit of mercy? Some kind of fucked up act of kindness?

For once in his goddamned miserable life, Dean doesn’t freeze. He accelerates, tires squealing as he spins a u-turn, leaving skid marks as he does. He drives with single-minded purpose until he gets to Winchester Automotive. The building is dark, the big picture windows surrounding the lobby illuminated only by the lamp posts in the parking lot. He swerves the car to a stop in the lot, leaves it parked at an angle, leaves the driver’s side door standing open as he yanks the keys from the ignition and gets out.

Unlocking the door, he strides to the back, to the garage bays filled with tools. He picks a few up, tests the weight and heft of a large wrench and then a sledge hammer, discarding each onto the garage floor with an echoing clatter before choosing a tire iron. It’s heavy in his hand, and his fingers curl easily around it. It’s exactly what he’s looking for.

Back outside, he stands for one long moment, poised and silhouetted in the darkness. And then he swings the tire iron. The windshield cracks but that’s not good enough. He swings again and again until it’s in pieces, broken glass glinting against the leather seat. His breath is coming hard and fast now and he takes a moment to knock off the driver’s side mirror as he begins to move around the car, taking aim at whatever feels right. The shatter of glass, the thud of thick dents in metal, the crack of plastic as he takes out a tail light. He doesn’t even realize he’s screaming, a raw gutteral noise that comes from somewhere newly uncovered deep inside of him.

He’s mesmerized by the destruction unfolding at his own hand, so completely focused on his task even as he sees the red and blue flashing lights of a police car pulling up. Dean doesn’t care. He keeps swinging at the car. He’s not so far gone that he can’t appreciate the symmetry of moment. Those recurring dreams he used to have, of clawing through the twisted wreckage of a car, before being pinned down by a police officer. Maybe it wasn’t a metaphor after all.

Maybe it was a premonition.

Using his sleeve to wipe away the sweat that’s dripping from his forehead into his eyes, he takes stock of the situation. The reality of what he’s done to the Impala crushes him like the weight of her battered metal frame. He destroys everything he loves.

There’s no place for him here, not while he’s trapped living somewhere between the horrors of the past and actively fucking up the present. It’s too hard and he’s too tired. He’s ready to be done, to stop tormenting the people in his life. Cas never signed up for this. Dean loves him, loves him in a way he’d never known was possible, but the biggest gift he can give him is to set him free.

He hears a man’s voice yelling at him. Telling him to freeze, to drop the weapon and put his hands up. It would be so fucking easy. Dean lets the moment stretch long and slow before him, playing out the possibilities. All he has to do is keep doing what he’s doing. The cop will take care of this for him, like Dean isn’t truly the one orchestrating what happens next. It’s a good plan, Dean thinks, it leaves enough plausible deniability that Cas and Sam can move forward thinking maybe it really was an accident, that Dean didn’t really want to die.

Still standing there, the tool clenched in his hands, he stares back at the cop who has his gun trained on him. He’s older now, but Dean recognizes him from when his dad was alive. Fergus Crowley. He used to hang out at the house some nights, chummy with Alastair. It’s the sign he’s been waiting for and Dean squares his shoulders, tightening his grip further, and taking in a deep breath as he gets ready to chance another swing.

That’s when he hears another voice. Sees another cop with her hand up, gesturing at Crowley to give her a moment. Crowley stays exactly where he is, weapon raised.

She approaches him slowly but Dean doesn’t miss the one hand at the ready on her hip. Her voice is low and calm, like you’d talk to a cornered animal.

“Hey, Dean, it’s me, Jody. You know me, right?”

Dean can’t answer but he looks away from Crowley long enough to meet her eyes and apparently that’s good enough for her.

“That’s great, you’re doing great. Looks like you’re having a hell of a night here, my friend. Let’s see if we can get this figured out together, okay? How about you drop what you’re holding.”

Dean doesn’t want to. The moment he does that he loses his advantage here. He’s so fucking tired of other people deciding his life for him.

“You been drinking tonight, Dean?”

It doesn’t surprise Dean that she’d think that. Who in their right mind would do something like this cold, stone sober? Just another reminder that Dean’s not in his right mind. “No,” he says, oddly proud of the fact.

He sees a flicker of surprise on her face, but she’s a professional so it doesn’t last long. “Okay, well whatever’s going on, I’m here to help. But you’ve got me meet me halfway, alright? You’ve got to put down that tool.” When he doesn’t respond, she takes another step closer. “Look, he doesn’t know you the way I do. He doesn’t know this isn’t you. You’re just having a bad night, whatever’s going on, this isn’t worth ruining your entire life over.”

“It’s already ruined.” He wants to say it with a scoff, to spit the words out with venom, but it just comes out sad and small. He feels his shoulders droop, but he doesn’t let his grip loosen.

Jody takes another step closer. Her eyes are kind. She’s his friend. And another person who’s going to realize he isn’t the person she thought he was. “Nowhere to go but up, then, huh? Hey, where’s Cas? You want me to call him? I’m sure he must be worried about you.”

She’ll never understand how broken and ruined he really is. He pictures her apologizing to Cas for setting him off on this path. They can commiserate after he’s gone, realizing how his death was the opportunity they needed to both be free of him.

His non-answer must tell her that she’s on the wrong track so she tries another angle. “How about Sam? We can get him out here right away. You wanna talk to Sam? Are he and Eileen and Henry still—“

What are they going to tell Henry? Will Dean’s blood still be staining the parking lot when they next drive by? Henry deserves better than this, better than him, but Dean refuses to fuck him over like that. Making a decision, Dean forces his fingers to unclench and the tire iron falls to the ground with a long, sharp clang.

When Jody moves close enough to put a gentle hand on his arm, Dean’s legs go out from under him and he falls to the ground, his face in his hands.

Jody is at his side in a moment, crouched down with one hand on his shoulder, her voice gentle and calm and kinder than he deserves. “Okay, can you stand up? Let’s go sit in my car.” Somehow, he stumbles upright, his face still covered. He thinks he should be crying but nothing will come out, it’s all just wedged into his chest and throat, choking him like a solid mass. She opens the back door of the cruiser and he doesn't even think twice about it until she says, ”You’re not being arrested. I’m just putting you here to keep you safe.” He makes his legs bend so he can sit and he wipes at his face, where tears are streaming from his eyes even though the rest of him isn’t crying. He sees Jody crouch down to get at his eye level. “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, but it’s clear something’s up.”

Wordlessly, he nods.

“You’ve got a couple of choices here. I can call for an ambulance and they can take you over to the hospital or I can call your husband and see what we can figure out from there. Can you make that decision?”

“Cas,” Dean says.

“Okay,” she rewards him with a bright smile. “You sit tight while I take care of that.” She closes the door. It’s all done lightly and casually but Dean knows that if she really felt like he was fine, she would’ve left that door open. He watches her talk with Crowley, the street light casting shadows that make their expressions unreadable. After a couple of minutes, she stays where she is, pulling out her phone. Crowley walks back towards the car.

Warily Dean watches until he opens the driver’s door and gets in. “You’re John’s kid, right?” Dean doesn’t trust his voice so all he does is nod. “I knew him way back when. He was a fun guy to be around.”

Dean doesn’t have the faintest idea of how to respond to that.

“He’s been gone a while, huh? How long’s it been?”

“Twenty-five years.”

Crowley catches his eye in the rearview mirror. “You’re the older one, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I remember your dad telling me you wanted to be a police officer when you grew up.”

It’s all Dean can do not to let the emotion choking him turn into unhinged hysterical laughter. When he was ten he wanted to be a cowboy or a firefighter. Maybe a baseball player. God only knows why his father felt the need to tell that particular lie. “Not how I remember it.”

“Kids,” Crowley says. “They change their minds every five minutes.”

Dean doesn’t like where this is going. He feels a hint of dread ripple through him as he realizes he’s closed in this car, completely at Crowley’s mercy. Does Crowley know something? Is he speaking in some sort of code? The thing is, Dean’s too fucking tired to even work up to a good old fashioned panic attack. The adrenaline from earlier has begun to vacate his system leaving him sitting and shaking.

He keeps his eyes down, and finds that he’s twisting his wedding ring on his finger when Jody returns. “Cas is on his way.” It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now that he knows Cas is going to see exactly what Dean’s done, he heaves out a sigh. Thankfully Jody doesn’t ask him anything further with Crowley sitting right there, and he notices her dart her eyes his way before turning back to Dean. “Anything I can do for you in the meantime?”

There’s nothing anyone can do for him, but Dean’s got enough working brain cells to know that talking like that will get him a one way trip to the psych unit so he shakes his head.

He sees headlights cut across the parking lot and they’re so bright Dean has to look away. He doesn’t want to see the look on Cas’s face when he sees the Impala. Or when he sees Dean shut away in the back of the cruiser. To his relief, Crowley gets out and leans on the car’s hood, close enough to keep an eye on Dean while also being able to hear Cas and Jody talk. Dean chances a glance at his husband, but as soon as Cas turns back in his direction, he looks away. It’s too much. Cas didn’t even bother to change out of his pajama pants and his hair is in disarray. He’s too far away for Dean to see the dark shadows under his eyes but he knows they’re there. The exhausted slump of his shoulders tells Dean exactly how done Cas is.

They talk for a while, and each time Dean looks over, Jody seems to be the one doing the talking, Cas mostly nodding along. When they finish, Jody signals for Cas to stay put before she returns to open the door for Dean. Again, she crouches down to speak with him.

“Here’s the deal. You can go home, but you’re going to need somebody with you around the clock. If you can’t agree to that and to the other stipulations of the safety plan, then your choice is done and you’re going to the hospital.”

Dean doesn’t know a lot of things right now, but he knows he doesn’t want that. He nods.

“Cas says you’ve been seeing a therapist.” It’s not a question so Dean doesn’t feel the need to answer. “When’s your next appointment with her?”

Still the better part of a week away. “Tuesday.”

“I want you to get in touch with her about what happened here tonight. She may want to see you sooner. Whatever she tells you to do, you do, all right?”

“All right.”

“If I let you out of this car, can I trust you to go right home with Cas and stay there?”

Hesitantly, Dean raises his eyes. “Is he mad?”

Jody’s face softens and, to Dean’s confusion, her eyes shine with tears. “Oh, honey, nobody’s mad at you. We’re worried about you and we want you to be safe.”

He gets out of the car, legs still shaky. They make their way over toward Cas, Dean keeping his head turned away so that he doesn’t have to see the Impala. At least it won’t have to be towed far, he thinks and he has to bite his tongue so as not to laugh. It’s not funny. None of it is, and yet it still bubbles up inside him, wanting to burst out of him.

Dean’s glad to have Jody by his side, even though he’s not sure why exactly. He keeps his eyes on the ground and realizes that Cas is wearing his work loafers with his pajama pants and thinking about him scrambling out the door in a panic over Dean has him feeling even worse.

All he does is make the people around him miserable.

Cas reaches for his hand and Dean lets him take it, acutely aware of how sweaty he is. He thinks maybe Cas wants to hug him, but Dean doesn’t want to even give him the chance.

“Let’s go home,” Cas says softly.

Dean pulls his hand free and gets in the passenger seat.

Cas doesn’t get in right away and Dean knows he and Jody are talking about him. There’s nothing they can come up with that Dean doesn’t already know about himself so it doesn’t even bother him. Cas knows how fucked up he is, how damaged and broken. Now that Dean knows his own father’s role in things… there’s no way Cas could get past that.

Maybe it’s genetic, Dean thinks, his head leaning against the cool glass of the window. Like alcoholism. Dean remembers his father drinking, much of the time angry and violent, but sometimes he would turn morose, weeping and apologizing and trying to hug Dean. Maybe, like the drinking he sure as fuck tried to instill in Dean at an early age, Dean would’ve turned out to be as fucked up as his own father. Someone who knowingly let a kid get hurt in the worst possible way. He remembers how worried he was when he tentatively let Cas know he didn’t want to have kids. Cas is probably thanking his lucky stars now.

And Henry. They’ll never let him see Henry again, or if they do it’ll be some sort of supervised visits. He and Billie have talked about how Henry turning ten contributed to these memories breaking through, but maybe it’s not because he was worried something could happen to Henry like it happened to Dean. Maybe he was worried that was the age he would start to hurt Henry.

It’s a horrifying thought but, again, Dean can’t seem to work up any panic about it. He feels heavy and leaden, like the car seat is molding itself to his body. When Cas finally gets in the car, even lifting his head from the window requires more energy than he can muster.

They drive home in silence.

Dean, because he’s a useless and worthless piece of shit, lets Cas take care of everything. Once they’re home again, Dean doesn’t give him a chance to talk, walking upstairs without ever meeting his husband’s eyes, so that he can pull off his clothes and fall into bed. He lies there, his body feeling like it’s made of concrete, listening to Cas going through drawers and cabinets, both downstairs in the kitchen and up in their bathroom. Dean doesn’t know what he’s doing with all the things he’s gathering, but knowing Cas he’s doing a thorough job of clearing out anything Dean could use to hurt himself.

It’s a theory he tests later when he gets up to use the bathroom and sees that even his nail clipper is gone from the bathroom drawer.

When Cas finally gets into bed, Dean can feel him staring, even with his own eyes closed. He tentatively brushes a hand through Dean’s hair but Dean can’t find it in himself to do more than pretend he’s asleep. Cas presses his lips to Dean’s forehead, just once.

In the morning, Dean can’t avoid things any longer. When he comes downstairs, Cas silently watches him walk across the living room.

“Hey,” Dean finally says, then has to clear his throat. It’s raw from the screaming he did last night. “Is there coffee?”

“Yeah, of course.” Cas starts to get to his feet but Dean holds out a hand to stop him.

“I can get it.”

Still, Cas follows him into the kitchen and Dean does his best not to feel trapped. “We, uh, we don’t have to talk about it but I need you to promise me that you’ll tell me if you don’t think you can keep yourself safe.”

It sounds almost rehearsed and Dean realizes it probably is. He knows he dodged a bullet in more ways than one last night and he has Jody to thank for that. He doesn’t even have it in him to protest that he’s fine so he keeps it simple, nodding his agreement while he fixes his coffee. When he looks up, Cas is still regarding him patiently, one eyebrow raised. “I promise.”

Cas’s shoulders relax the tiniest bit. “I reached out to Billie.” Great, one more thing Dean couldn’t even do for himself. “She’s out of town at a conference but she gave me the name of a colleague who might be able to fit you in on an emergency basis.”

“No,” Dean says sharply, before remembering that Cas is bending over backwards for him. “I mean thank you, but I’d rather not.” It was hard enough to go through this all once with Billie; he’s not about to start from scratch with a stranger.

“All right.” There’s a long pause where Dean should say something, but he doesn’t so Cas tries again. “Are you hungry?”

“Not really.” He’s sore, shoulders aching from the violent way he’d swung the tire iron last night. That’s enough to have him pushing away thoughts of his baby and the way he’d left her. Somehow he doesn’t think Cas will have a lot of sympathy for his self-inflicted muscle pain so he says, “I’ve got a little bit of a headache.” It’s not really a lie.

“I, uh… I’ll get you a dose of pain reliever.”

Of course. No way is Cas going to give him access to an entire bottle. Dean stands awkwardly in the kitchen for a moment longer before taking his coffee back upstairs. He hears the front door open and close; Cas must have put the stash of things Dean can’t be trusted to handle in the trunk of his car.

Cas comes back up with a glass of water and hands it to Dean along with two tablets. He sits on the edge of the bed as Dean swallows them. Dean wonders if Cas will make him stick out his tongue afterwards to prove that they’re gone.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Cas finally says.

Dean holds back a snort because he’s so far from okay that it feels as distant as the moon. Cas has enough to worry about so he just nods. “Yeah.”

“Billie said can see you when she gets back…that’ll be Monday so, a day earlier at least.” He stops and licks his lips. “Let’s just get through these next few days, okay?”

“Sure,” Dean says, staring into the glass of water. “I think I wanna sleep some more.”

Cas takes it for the dismissal it is. He sighs and gets to his feet. “Just let me know what you need.” He steps closer and Dean lets him kiss him ever so briefly and chastely on the lips. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Dean says to the wall above Cas’s shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for Dean remembering that his Dad both knew about the abuse and facilitated it by giving him beer. Dean has a standoff with a cop in which he engages in suicidal thoughts and considers letting them shoot him. He continues to feel hopeless and depressed at the end of the chapter.
> 
> Pretty sure there's nothing I can say here to help. I am really excited to share this chapter with you, though. It contains the first point in this story where I made myself cry as I wrote it!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end notes for content warnings.

Over the next few days, he tries to make Cas’s life easier. He eats when he’s offered food. When he inevitably wakes in the middle of the night, he stays in bed so Cas won’t have to worry about where he is. Cas suggests going for walks outside in the summer sunshine, but Dean refuses. Cas is working from home so he can babysit Dean and Dean doesn’t want him wasting any more of his time. Last thing Cas needs is to escort Dean in slow turns around the neighborhood like he’s a grandpa sprung from the nursing home for a brief visit.

He wonders what Cas told Charlie when he let her know Dean would be taking some time off. Probably nothing, just told her to check the parking lot for an easy, visual explanation. He wonders, but he doesn’t have enough energy to follow through and find out. He’s had some missed calls and texts from Sam but he doesn’t reply or even bother listening to the voice mails. Mostly he lies in bed with the television on even though he’s not watching it. The background noise helps him to be not quite so alone with his thoughts.

Something Dean Winchester is learning at the ripe old age of forty: depression is preferable to anxiety. Billie had told him that they’re basically two sides of the same coin, stress and trauma manifesting themselves in different but related ways. The depression isn’t great, but compared to being chased through his every waking hour by persistent anxiety, being depressed feels so… chill. Dean sleeps long stretches, especially during the day. He feels next to nothing. His brain doesn’t churn, his heart doesn’t race. Sure, he feels guilty for being so worthless but after doing nothing but _feeling_ things for the past few months, there’s almost a sense of comfort and relief in this new, pervasive numbness. When he doesn’t want to think about something, he just rolls over, tugs the covers a little higher, and lets the television lull him into another nap.

He knows he can’t go on like this. He’s done what they wanted--going to therapy, trying to use the tools and techniques, but nobody understands what he’s going through. Every time he remembers something new it’s like opening a door on an advent calendar from hell. He feels bad that Cas probably thinks it was their fight that caused Dean to lose his shit, but he hasn’t told Cas what he remembers about his dad. He’s terrified to talk about it, terrified to even let his thoughts linger on it because what if the next thing he’ll remember is his dad doing more than just plying him with alcohol? What if he recovers memories of his dad in there with them? He can’t risk that.

He tried it their way, but this is his life and he knows what his limits are. There’s no coming back from this. He tried, he really did. Cas will be sad, he imagines, but he’ll also feel relieved, the weight of caring for Dean lifted off of him. Cas loves calm, he loves an orderly life, he’s a _librarian_ for fuck’s sake. He didn’t sign up for this. Dean wants him to be free to live the life he deserves with somebody who didn’t misrepresent every single thing about themself. Cas has already dealt with enough of his shit. To know there are worse, deeper layers? Dean won’t do that to him.

Now Dean wishes he hadn’t trashed the Impala. Not because he’s feeling nostalgic or regretful about that particular act of destruction, but because he thinks he could be brave enough to end things if she were there to keep him company. He spends long stretches of time imagining himself speeding down a darkened highway, yanking the wheel at the very last moment while he keeps his foot pressed on the accelerator. The end would be quick and maybe Sam and Cas could tell themselves it wasn’t intentional.

(He doesn’t let himself linger on the thought that this is basically how his dad died. Doesn’t let himself wonder if it was more than an accident. Because somehow that would be Dean’s fault as well and he’s too fucking tired for that.)

Henry will be able to understand a car accident. It happens all the time. It’s _norma_ l. He’ll be sad, but it’ll be something he can talk about openly with people. Dean’s death won’t be whispered about using code words that everyone sees right through.

He wonders what kind of adult Henry will grow into, what he’ll study, who he’ll love. It’ll all be easier when his father isn’t distracted trying to take care of his uncle. That was never Sammy’s job. Maybe he’ll leave a note asking Sam to buy the kid a tape player so he can listen to the cassettes that are still in the Impala’s glove compartment.

With that settled, Dean closes his eyes and lets sleep wash over him again.

***

They make it to Saturday with Dean following Cas’s instructions and trying not to cause him any additional trouble. They’ve exchanged very few words—mostly safe discussions about what Dean wants to eat. They’ve studiously avoided discussing anything of consequence, but when Cas comes and sits on the edge of their bed Saturday afternoon, Dean knows his luck has run out. Cas has been bugging him to take a shower today; maybe Dean could’ve managed that one thing and prevented this face-to-face from happening.

“I’ve been trying to figure out the best way to do this, but I finally decided I should just ask your opinion.”

Dean buys some time propping a pillow behind his back. “About what?”

“In the grand scheme of things it really doesn’t matter, but I need to let people know if I can’t be there.”

Now Dean’s genuinely confused. “What are we talking about here?”

Cas meets his eyes but only for a moment. “My presentation is tomorrow.”

Jesus. Dean’s been so wrapped up in himself that he lost track of the days. Cas has been so excited about this opportunity. Of course Dean’s managed to fuck this up for him. Funny how the numbness seems to prevent everything but the sinking disappointment he’s now feeling. “You absolutely need to be there.” Dean wipes a hand over his face. “Sorry for forgetting that was this weekend.”

Even that tiny bit of acknowledgement has Cas’s face softening. It makes something ping sharply in Dean’s chest to realize he’s been so selfish lately that expressing the slightest amount of human decency has become a gift to Cas.

“If it were anything else I wouldn’t even think twice about canceling, but—“

“No, of course you should go. It’s a huge honor and you deserve it. I’ll be fine for one day.”

“No.” Cas’s face goes deadly serious. “I made a promise to Jody that you would be supervised. I’ll only go if you agree to that.”

“You gonna get me a babysitter?” Dean’s trying here but this is some bullshit.

“I’d like to arrange for someone else to come stay with you, yes. I’ll be gone less than half the day.”

Dean sighs. He’s finally exchanged a few, brief texts with his brother. He has no doubt Cas filled him in with what knowledge he has, but Sam has kept things light, sending chipper check-in messages or pics of Henry. God knows there’s no love lost between Sam and their father, but Dean can still spare him some pain and further disillusionment by keeping this information to himself. If he has to pretend to be asleep all morning to avoid talking to Sam or even seeing his puppy eyes, Dean can do that.

“Okay,” Dean says tersely, tossing back the covers to put an end to the conversation. “Guess I’ll take that shower now.”

When he comes out of the shower, Dean can hear Cas downstairs on the phone. Rubbing at his wet hair with a towel, Dean leaves the television off for once and stands listening near the bedroom door that Cas insists never be completely closed. In a supreme act of fuck-his-life timing, it appears there’s a mandatory orientation session for Henry’s sleepaway camp that coincides with Cas’s presentation.

“No, Sam, it’s fine,” he hears Cas say. “I appreciate it but I know how hard it would be for Eileen to get someone to cover for her with such short notice.” There’s a pause. “No, if it comes to that, I will, but let me see what else I can figure out first.” Cas listens for a bit. “Yes. Yes, a little better I think. And he got up to take a shower, so that’s good. I know he hates this but hopefully it’s just for a few more days.” Another pause where no doubt they’re commiserating over how Dean has ruined all of their plans. “All right, I’ll call you back if something changes. Give Henry a hug from me and tell him we miss him.”

When Cas ends the call, Dean gets ready to take the towel back to the bathroom. He’s still pivoting away from the door when he hears Cas speaking again.

“Hello, Mother.”

***

Cas looks so handsome this morning, freshly shaved and in his suit. Dean’s known him long enough to know he’s nervous but he’s trying not to let it show.

“You’re going to do great,” Dean assures him. His smile feels false, like his face is a mask and it’s being manipulated into patterns only somewhat approximating human expressions.

“You’re sure you’ll be alright?” A flicker of concern is in Cas’s eyes, but Dean also sees the need for him to clear out so he can focus on his presentation.

“You think Naomi Novak is going to let me get away with anything?”

At that Cas lets out a small, but genuine laugh. “I am sorry. I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Dean tolerates a kiss. He’s surprised Cas even wants to, seeing as he’s got himself looking polished and professional and Dean hasn’t even managed to brush his teeth yet this morning. He wishes he could lean into Cas’s warmth and accept the love that’s there, but that’s too risky. Dean’s barely holding it together as it is. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” They’ve been saying it before bed each night, and while Dean can maintain eye contact now, it still feels reflexive, a perfunctory call and response. Cas’s face lights up with something bittersweet and he lingers in the doorway.

Downstairs, Naomi is already waiting, sitting primly on the couch, Dean is sure. Her blouse will be neatly pressed and her hair in a tidy bun. He hears them murmuring, Cas no doubt giving her instructions. They never gave her grandkids, but here she is babysitting nonetheless. Dean listens for the sound of the front door opening and closing, for Cas’s car starting up, and then the fade of the engine as he drives away. He hopes Cas can forget completely about him and enjoy this day, the fruit of all his hard work.

Dean turns the television on, switching the channel to a game show he isn’t going to watch. He agreed to have his mother-in-law here, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to interact with her.

The morning seems to crawl by, and even though Dean doesn’t see or talk to her, the knowledge that she’s there downstairs is something he can’t not be aware of, like a lump in his mattress. He hears her running water and moving around, her low heels clacking on the floor. No doubt she’s found things to clean and instead of being grateful, Dean feels yet another wave of guilt over how useless he’s become, how much work he is for everyone around him.

His death will be a gift to all of them. It’s perverse, almost, the pleasure he takes in thinking up ways to die. But the relief… the release from the pain, the way he’ll be safeguarding himself against whatever his psyche still has for him. It’s like bursting through the ribbon at the end of a marathon.

It’s close to lunchtime when he hears the unmistakable sounds of Naomi coming up the stairs. She knocks on the partially-closed bedroom door and pushes it open when Dean makes a sound of assent. She’s carrying a plate and a cup.

Dean pushes himself to a sitting position and tries to clear some room on the bedside table. “You didn’t have to bring that up. I could’ve come down.” Then he winces. “Thank you, I mean.”

“It’s no problem.” She crosses the room to set things down.

This is good, actually. Up here, there’ll be nobody to monitor how much he eats. He’s giving her a tight smile and anticipating the return of his solitude when she sits down on the edge of the bed.

Jesus, this must be where Cas gets it from.

She purses her lips and Dean waits for the lecture. No doubt she’s of the generation that doesn’t believe in mental illness. She’ll tell him to stop wallowing, to stop feeling sorry for himself. Honestly, there’s a part of Dean that agrees. Why the fuck is he lying around like he’s got a broken leg when he’s perfectly capable of being up and about. Only thing is, he can’t seem to get out of bed.

“For me, it was my uncle,” she begins softly, glancing at Dean. “As you know, I’m the oldest so he did my mother a favor by picking me up for the youth group at church. She had her hands full with the little ones and was so grateful not to have to pack everyone up to take me across town.” She’s no longer looking at Dean, her eyes unfocused as she studies the wall. “We’d go early so there’d be time to set up and he would…touch me. And make me touch him.” Dean feels his heart begin to pound and Naomi turns to him with a brittle, almost rueful smile. “He was the priest.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything.

“I wish I could’ve been as brave as you are.” Naomi blows out a long slow breath, her mouth trembling a little. “I’ve never told anyone about that until right this very moment.” She twists her hands together in her lap before continuing. “When Castiel was a child, I was determined nothing like that would ever happen to him. My uncle was dead by then so I knew he wouldn’t be an issue, but even so I was never brave enough to talk to him about it. I did what I could to protect him, but I never could bring myself to ask him directly if anyone was hurting him in that way.” She shakes her head a little. “What if he said yes? All because I was too scared to broach the subject?”

Dean’s not sure he understands, not exactly, but he thinks he can offer her some reassurance at least. “He’s never told me about anything like that happening to him, so I don’t think you need to worry about it.”

Naomi grants him a small smile, then adds, “I’m not telling you this to add to your burden, and I sincerely apologize if it feels that way.” She takes in a deep breath. “I know how it is to feel so dirty and ashamed. To feel like you should’ve been strong enough to stop it.” When she looks at him again, her gaze is unwavering, so much like her son’s. “No matter what happened to you, you aren’t. And you couldn’t have.”

Dean’s been told this before, by Billie and by Cas. Intellectually, he knows it’s true, but this is the first time he’s ever _felt_ it. His eyes fill with tears and the weight that’s been pinning him to this bed seems to shift, coalescing in his chest, the pressure building until he thinks his ribs might crack and splinter.

Naomi’s expression goes soft, her eyes full of warmth. “Castiel loves you so much and it would break him to lose you. Please don’t shut him out.” Dean’s lip is quivering now, despite his attempt to stop it, and Naomi reaches a hand to his face. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Something bursts inside of Dean then and for the first time since the memories came back he cries. It’s not just tears silently streaming down his face, but wracking, breath-stealing sobs that feel like he’s being wrung out. Naomi holds him, patting his back and making soft, wordless sounds. She comforts him like a mother would and, goddammit, he misses his mom so much. He cries until he can no longer hold himself upright, his body going limp as he stops fighting the emotion flowing through him. When his sobs finally slow to gasps and then to shuddering breaths, he finds he’s lying with his head in Naomi’s lap, her hands smoothing his hair. His nose is stuffed and his head aches and he knows he’s gotten tears and snot on her skirt. He should disentangle himself to blow his nose and eat the lunch she’s made for him. Instead, he closes his swollen eyes and lets the warmth of her touch soothe him.

When he sleeps this time, it feels less like an escape and more like actual rest.

He wakes to Cas standing in the doorway looking as confused as Dean feels. He’s looking between Dean, who is back on his pillow, and Naomi who has slipped off her shoes and is resting against the headboard, ankles crossed and her head tipped back in sleep. As carefully as he can, Dean sits up, then gets out of bed. He tugs Cas out into the hall. “How’d it go?”

“Good,” he says, but he still looks tentative. “I got some good feedback. Were things okay here?”

“Can we go downstairs?”

Downstairs they sit side by side on the couch and Cas looks braced for impact in a way that breaks Dean’s heart. “I’m so sorry,” he begins, and his eyes fill with tears again. He’s too tired to try and stop them so he keeps talking even as his voice quavers and shakes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for making you worry. I’m sorry for shutting you out.” Cas’s eyes go wide with surprise but he reaches for Dean’s hand and Dean clings to it like the lifeline it is. “I, uh, the other night I remembered something new and I’m not ready to talk about it yet because it’s really fucking hard right now.” He stops to blink away the tears blinding his vision as a sob works through him. “But I’ll keep trying. I promise.”

Cas pulls him into an embrace and Dean cries some more because apparently that’s what he does now. He can’t believe he tried to deprive himself of this, of this love and strength that Cas has and is so willing to give. When Cas pulls back enough to look at Dean, there are tears in his eyes as well. “That’s all I ask. I can’t begin to know what it’s like for you, but I can be there for you, if you’ll let me.”

“I know it’s hard for you, too. I can’t ask you to give everything to me.” Dean scrubs at his own face for a moment. “I got so scared you would leave. I think I was just trying to brace myself against that and all it did was push you away.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Cas says. “I believe we can get through this, I honestly do.” His blue eyes are nearly luminous. “But we have to be a team. I know there are days you want to give up, but those are the days you need to let me carry the weight of it with you.”

Nodding, Dean pulls him close again. He feels back in his body, like these episodes of crying have hollowed him out and allowed him to refill his lungs and veins and bones with something new, something that feels more like hope than he’s experienced in a long time. Dean feels safe in Cas’s arms and he breathes in the clean scent of him. For his part, Cas is gripping him so tightly, like he’s afraid Dean will disappear if he lets go.

“He stole my life from me once,” Dean says forcefully. “I won’t let him do it a second time.”

Cas kisses him gently, pressing his lips to Dean’s cheek and temple and forehead. He takes Dean’s face in both of his hands and kisses him on the lips. Dean knows he must look like shit with his face tear-stained, his eyes swollen and his nose red, but Cas is looking at him like he’s never seen anything more beautiful. Another tear slides down his face as Dean leans forward to kiss him again.

“We’ll be okay,” Dean promises, and it feels like the truest thing he’s ever said. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Cas holds Dean even tighter as he says it.

When they finally pull apart, Cas takes both of his hands. He tips his head toward the stairs “Can I ask what happened up there?”

Dean gives Cas a half-smile. Had you asked this morning who would be most likely to get through to him, Naomi Novak wouldn’t even have made the list. If she one day decides to be honest with her son, Dean will support her, but he knows this isn’t his to share. “Turns out we both really love you.”

***

As promised, Billie is able to see him on Monday. Even though he’s feeling a bit better, Dean doesn’t argue when Cas says he’ll drive him, and Dean finds himself approaching her office with a combination of anticipation and dread. When Billie opens her office door right at the top of the hour as usual, Dean turns to Cas before he gets to his feet.

“Can you hang out here?”

“Of course,” Cas replies, although he looks a little confused.

“Thanks.” Dean kisses him quickly and then he follows Billie into the office and assumes his regular spot on the loveseat.

She smiles and greets him but there’s a shrewdness in her eyes like she’s not sure how this is going to go. Dean doesn’t wait for her to engage in any pleasantries.

“Okay, so you know I had an… incident last week.”

“When Cas called me, he gave me the basics, but I’d like to hear about it in your own words.”

“Uh, I don’t know the technical term for it but I guess you could say I lost my fucking shit.”

Billie smiles. “That works.”

Dean relaxes incrementally. It’s not like he expected her to sigh and lecture him, only at some level he sort of expected her to sigh and lecture him.

“It sounds like you had a lot of anger you needed to get out.”

“Yeah. And believe me I know that wasn’t the healthiest way but”—he rubs a hand over his mouth—“I remembered something new and sort of just flipped out.”

“Alright,” Billie says. “We can talk about what you remembered.”

“I want to,” Dean starts, then corrects himself. “I mean I really, _really_ don’t, but I know I need to. The thing is I haven’t told Cas about it yet and I was wondering if I could tell both of you at once?”

“You’d like Cas to join us in here?”

Dean nods. “I get if that’s not something you can do, but I felt like it would be easier.”

“We can do that, but can we take a minute first to talk about what you're hoping to gain from it?”

Dean furrows his brow. Isn’t talking about it the whole goal? “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I mean, are you worried about how he’ll react to the information?”

“No,” Dean says quickly. “I know he’ll support me no matter what. I think that if I have to talk about it, I… feel safe here.”

Billie smiles at him, bright enough that Dean ducks his head shyly. “Got it. Ready now?”

When Dean opens the door, Cas looks up from his magazine and there’s a brief moment where he can read the concern there, concern that maybe Dean’s stomping out after just a few moments, that he’s quitting therapy for good and that’s why he asked Cas to stay and take him directly home. “Can you come in here?”

“Sure,” Cas says but his hesitation is evident in the way he carefully replaces the magazine on the coffee table before getting to his feet.

Back in the office, Billie is standing as well. She holds out her hand as Dean closes the door again. “I’m Billie.”

“Castiel. I know we spoke on the phone, but it’s nice to officially meet you.”

“I’m happy to meet you as well. I know there’s no way for it not to sound weird in this setting, but I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Dean manages a laugh. “Yeah, that’s weird.”

Billie shrugs, smiling. “I warned you. Please, sit down.”

Cas sits down on the far side of the love seat, then looks up expectantly at Dean who is still standing. Yeah, that’s not going to work. “Can you…?” Dean points to the open cushion and Cas immediately shifts over. Stepping past him, Dean settles into his regular seat.

“Sorry, that’s my seat,” Dean tries to explain but it sounds childish.

“There’s comfort in routine.” Billie observes.

“No, no, whatever you need,” Cas says, but he’s sitting rigidly.

Dean blows out a deep breath. “So… ” He looks at Billie, suddenly stuck.

“First off,” she says, watching Dean to make sure this is alright. He gives her a tiny nod. “You being here doesn’t have anything to do with your relationship. Dean asked you to join us because he remembered something new and that’s what caused him to react the way he did last week with his car.”

Getting that out of the way helps, and Dean watches as the line of his husband’s shoulders relax. “I thought it would be easier to tell both of you at once.”

They sit in silence waiting for Dean to gather his thoughts. Their patience is both a gift and a curse and the longer the silence stretches, the more anxious Dean gets. He does a couple of slow deep breaths, inhale, hold, exhale and then he starts. “I realized why I never told my dad. It’s because he already knew.” He doesn’t look at either of them as he speaks, instead focusing on the green glass of the lamp shade on Billie’s desk. “It didn’t happen every time I helped him in the garage but I knew when it was going to because my dad would give me beer.” He hears Cas inhale sharply. “I was ten fucking years old and he was trying to loosen me up. Maybe he thought he was doing me a favor.” Cas reaches for his hand, but Dean’s not ready yet and he shakes his head. “So yeah, I was already kind of amped up after having that fight with you and I remembered all this when I was driving and I just sort of… lost it.”

“That’s big,” Billie says, and Dean feels validated by her confirmation.

“Yeah.” Dean’s too tired even to be snarky.

“Would you like Cas to respond? Or just listen?”

“Just listen, right now, I think.” He looks at Cas. “If that’s okay?”

“Yes, of course.”

“All right,” Billie says, and Dean can feel her taking the reins. “There’s a lot to unpack here, but let’s start with how you’re feeling right now in the moment of telling us.”

Dean takes stock of himself. Yeah, his heart is going kind of fast and his palms are sweating, but he feels centered in his body. “Not terrible? I don’t feel like I’m dissociating at all.”

“You mentioned to me earlier that you felt like being here was a safe place where you could open up.”

“Yeah.” He rubs a hand at the back of his neck, and looks at her a little sheepishly. “I never thought I’d say this, but I was actually looking forward to coming here today because I knew I’d be able to talk about it.” Beside him, Cas lets out a small snort, even though he tries to hide it with a cough. It’s the best possible reaction, Dean realizes as a sense of almost giddiness sweeps through him. Without even thinking about it, he whacks Cas on the shoulder. “I heard that.”

Then they’re all three laughing, even though Cas’s is a little brittle and he’s wiping tears from his face. “I’m sorry. I know this isn’t about me, but I feel… _hopeful_ , I guess is the word, for the first time in a while.”

Billie’s face turns serious. “Cas brings up a good point. While this is about what happened to Dean, there’s no way that hearing about it and processing it with him doesn’t affect you. Relationships are systems and when something affects one person, it also affects the other.”

Still loose from the laughter, Dean slumps against the loveseat, arms crossed over his chest. “I can’t believe you’re taking his side.”

Billie turns to him, eyebrows arched like she wants to explore that some more, but he winks at her and she continues. “While the stress may not be equal on both partners, it’s real and it’s valid.”

Beside him, he can practically hear Cas thinking of how to phrase what he no doubt wants to say. Dean jumps in instead. “That’s what we fought about that night. I was upset that he’d confided in his mother.”

“I should have checked with your first,” Cas says miserably. “I’m sorry if I set this whole thing in motion.”

Dean turns to take his hand, unhappy to see his handsome face so anguished. “I wanted to be mad and I took it out on you. It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair. I’m sorry, too.” Cas’s lips gently part and Dean’s wondering if it would be weird to kiss his husband here in the middle of the session when Billie interrupts.

“As you can imagine, there are lots of techniques and strategies for handling trauma within a relationship. I don’t do that type of therapy, but even if I did, as Dean’s primary therapist, it wouldn’t be ethical for me to see both of you. I can provide you with some referrals, though, if you like.”

Dean tries to imagine going to two different therapists and what that might cost. It doesn’t sound great, but he wants Cas to know he’s trying. “Sure, it would be nice to have some options.”

“I’ll get those for you.” She fixes her eye on Dean. “Are you ready to continue with our session now?”

Dean turns to Cas. “You good?”

Cas nods and leans in to kiss Dean on the cheek. “I’ll be right outside.”

“So, we have a lot to talk about,” Billie says once he leaves. “What would you like to prioritize?”

Dean runs through that last week in his mind. He recalls the blinding, almost cleansing anger as he swung the tire iron, the terror he felt afterwards at how badly the run in with the cops could have gone. He thinks about lying in his bed coming up with ways to die, and of his mother-in-law’s confession and the way a dam seemed to burst inside of him in response. But he pulls up the one thing that seems to underlie all the rest of these things.

“My dad. What I remember about him. It’s awful.”

“Yeah,” Billie says, softly.

“I was so fucking pissed when I remembered,” Dean says, his voice going hard. “I’ve been beating myself up for not telling anyone but it turns out he knew all along? Who the fuck does that? I think about Henry and… “ He trails off. It’s too awful to contemplate.

“This was a huge act of betrayal.”

“Did he even care about me at all? Ever?”

“It’s hard to feel like he did when he left you so knowingly unprotected.”

“You don’t do that,” Dean says vehemently. “Not to another person and especially not to a child. I thought I knew what it felt like to be mad, because a part of me has been furious at what happened to me, at the person who did it, but this? It feels so much worse.” His jaw aches from how he has it clenched. He meets Billie’s eye. “Do I have to forgive him? Is that the only way for me to move forward?”

“If you decide that making peace with his actions will bring you peace, then we can work on that. Otherwise, you absolutely do not have to. This process is about you.”

Dean’s response is quick and decisive. “I don’t want to.”

They talk about Dean’s anger, how it feels, how it manifests. He goes through the timeline of the events of the night he remembered and Dean’s honest with her about how good it felt to destroy the car, and he’s equally honest about the regret he now feels. She talks with him about how anger can be easier to feel than hurt, but that the two go hand in hand. She tells him about the concept of betrayal trauma, in which the person causing or facilitating the trauma is also the one necessary for survival and protection.

Dean shakes his head. “I never stood a chance.”

“It definitely adds another complicated layer to what you experienced.” She thinks for a moment. “It may help explain why dissociative amnesia became your way to survive.”

“Great,” Dean says, and then he brings up something that’s been bothering him. “What I remembered is really bad but… what if I remember more? What if I remember something even worse?”

“You might.” Billie says it in such a matter of fact way that Dean nearly flinches.

“Awesome,” he says bitterly. “Isn’t there something that says when you, like, destroy a car and almost get shot by the cops and are ready to give up forever that means you’ve remembered the worst of it?”

“I wish I could tell you that was the case, and no doubt worrying about it is causing you further anxiety, but here’s the thing: no matter what you remember, we deal with it the same way. All the things we’ve been doing here, all the work you’ve been putting in to make use of your supports and coping mechanisms, it’s all the same no matter what you remember.”

“Oh,” Dean says. “I hadn’t thought about it like that.” It actually makes him feel better to know that maybe he’s got the tiniest bit of a handle on it, that nothing he uncovers will require an entirely different starting point.

She glances at the clock. “Before you leave here today, I want to discuss something else. You haven’t said it outright, but is it fair to say that you’ve been having thoughts of suicide?”

It shouldn’t be so jarring to hear those words in a therapist’s office, but somehow the straightforward way she asks it catches him off guard. Despite everything, his first instinct is to deny it but he pushes past that. “It’s eased up a bunch, but yeah.” He feels another weight lift off of him at the admission.

She doesn’t beat around the bush, asking him if he has a plan for how he would die, probing to see if he’s set a date or time to do it. He’s honest yet again, telling her that he fantasized about a number of ways, including driving into a tree before remembering he didn’t actually have access to a car. She listens as he admits he thought it would be easier on Henry that way.

“So, it sounds like it weighed heavily on you for a bit, but from what you’re saying today, you don’t feel that you’re in immediate danger.”

“No. I mean it’s still kind of there in the background, I guess, but not like it was before.”

“Sometimes people think they want to die but what they really want is for the pain they’re feeling to stop. When you hit a crisis point, it can be hard to tell the difference.”

Dean feels the emotion start to build in his chest at that. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Exactly. I, uh, everything I say in here is confidential, right?”

“Unless I feel you are a threat to yourself or someone else.”

He nods. He knew that already, but he had to check. “My mother-in-law came to stay with me the other day. She—she shared her own story of being abused and that really helped.”

Billie leans back in her chair, a little surprised. “That must’ve been unexpected.”

“I cried.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “For the first time since this all happened I cried like a goddamn baby.”

“And?”

Blinking away the tears that have filled his eyes, Dean huffs out a sigh. “You’re gonna make me say it?” She waits. “ _Fine_. I felt better after.”

She smiles at him, but then her face turns serious again. “Like I’ve said before, Dean, this is hard work. And while it may not look like it from where you sit, you’re making good progress. But none of that matters if you’re not safe and able to keep going. The fact that you feel safe here is terrific, but as you know, I can’t be available all the time.” Dean nods and resists making a joke about only freaking out during business hours to break the tension. “I know it’s not what you want to hear, but those feelings will almost inevitably return so before you leave here today I’d like to put together a safety plan for if you feel those thoughts of suicide so strongly again.”

Dean nods. “I think I’d like that.”

She pulls out an actual worksheet that they go through together. He identifies the warning signs he felt, the hopelessness, the thought that he’s dragging everyone down with him, the instinct to keep everything to himself so he doesn’t add to his family’s burden. They talk about coping mechanisms and Dean expects there will be some new, fancy ones to deal with suicide, but it turns out that isn’t the case. They go through the techniques already in his toolkit and she explains to him that when he reaches a breaking point it can be almost impossible to remember them. Having them all gathered in one place and in writing can give him a roadmap of sorts to follow when he’s lost. Dean doesn’t quite believe that but he dutifully writes them down. Turns out she’s the expert.

Finally they make a list of who he can reach out to when he can’t handle it on his own. Cas, obviously. Sam, too. He gets a little stuck after that.

“You mentioned that one of the things that happens is you decide you need to keep what you’re dealing with to yourself.”

“I mean, come on. This is a lot to dump on someone.”

“It can be, for sure. Which is why having a few more people to talk to can help to spread that around.”

“No problem,” he mutters. “I’ll just take out an ad in the paper.”

“You don’t need to tell them everything, but if you have some people you can reach out to even just enough to say ‘Hey, I’m struggling right now’ that can make all the difference.”

Dean considers that. Eileen knows what’s going on and she’s not likely to be scared off. Jody saw him at his absolute worst and was still so kind to him. Naomi sure as hell gets it. The more he thinks about it the more people come to mind. Charlie probably wouldn’t judge him. Bobby would definitely want what's best for him, no questions asked. Suddenly he realizes he has more people than lines on the sheet. He smiles softly to himself as he begins to write them down.

He comes out of the office with the paper clutched in his hand. He and Cas don’t speak until they’re back in the car.

“Doing okay?” Cas asks.

“Better than I was.”

“Your dad. That’s… “

Dean doesn’t blame him for trailing off because what is there to say? “Yeah.”

“I won’t always know the right thing to say, but I’m here.”

Dean gives him a one-armed hug. “So, Billie and I made this today. It’s a safety plan for if I get so… bad again.”

“May I?”

Dean hands it to him. “It’s nothing earth-shattering but it sort of has everything in one place which is supposed to help. She even said that the paper can be a tool itself, like if I’m too stressed to tell you what’s wrong, I can bring it out and give it to you.” Dean likes the idea of that, likes not worrying about having to find the right words.

“That seems perfect,” Cas says, looking up from the paper.

“She also said that if you’re okay with it, I can be off house arrest.”

Cas glances back down at the safety plan. “Are _you_ okay with it?”

Dean takes in a deep breath and takes stock of how he feels. “Yeah. I feel better knowing we have a plan in place. I’m ready to get back to my life.”

“Speaking of… I got a text from Jody while you were in your session. She’d like to bring us dinner. I told her I’d check to see if you were up to that.”

Dean’s first reaction is _Yeah I bet she fucking would_. Their interaction that night crossed so many boundaries between her professional responsibilities and their personal friendship. “Did you tell her what’s been going on?”

Cas shakes his head, hurrying to explain. “I told her that night that you were dealing with some things from your past, but I didn’t go into any detail.”

Dean nods. As angry as he was for Cas telling his mother, he admits it would be sort of nice to not have to go into it from the beginning with someone new. “I guess that’s fine if she wants to come by. God knows I owe her that much.”

“You don’t owe her anything,” Cas says firmly. “I know that she’d be coming as a friend, not to pry.”

“I think…” Dean begins. “I think I’d like to tell her.”

“Only if that feels right to you.”

“None of this feels great but this feels a little…less terrible, I guess?”

Cas smiles. “That’s a start at least.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for Dean having increased suicidal thoughts and ideation. Another character shares her own story of being abused by her uncle who was a priest. 
> 
> Okay, friends, it's not all going to be sunshine and roses from this point on, but Dean will be making use of his supports going forward. Also, I considered breaking this into two chapters but I love you all and I wanted to get us through to the other side! 
> 
> This seems like as good a place as any to provide some links to support/info for if you are having thoughts of suicide. It may not feel like it in the moment, but there is help to be had. https://suicideprevention.wikia.org/wiki/International_Suicide_Prevention_Directory

**Author's Note:**

> My non-explicit fics can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sconesandtextingandmurder)
> 
> I am [scones-and-texting-and-murder](http://scones-and-texting-and-murder.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and [violethaze_ao3](https://twitter.com/ViolethazeA) on twitter.


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